


Twisted Fate

by WoodlandGoddess1



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blindfolds, Bottom Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, First Time Bottoming, Gags, M/M, Magic Fingers, Magic Hands, Magic Mouth, Magical Bondage, Past Character Death, References to Despression, References to PTSD, References to Suicide, References to physical abuse, Rimming, Top Merlin, Various Arthurian Figures, Voyeurism, magic penis, mentions of bullying, references to past sexual abuse, references to slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2018-08-07 12:16:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 77
Words: 401,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7714564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WoodlandGoddess1/pseuds/WoodlandGoddess1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur Pendragon was positive that Fate was cackling, wherever she was. Damn her. Two decades had passed since his father was beheaded and Estienne Bayard took his place as King, and now Arthur found himself working for his own usurper: Merlin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I just want to say a few things:
> 
> 1) I own nothing; Merlin the Television Series belongs to BBC and Shine, and I'm just having fun in their sandbox. 
> 
> 2) I should be working on another fic for another fandom right now (as I've been trying to for ages), but I'm finding it hard to focus BECAUSE MERLIN KEEPS INVADING MY BRAIN. HERE IS ONE RESULT OF SUCH INVASIONS.
> 
> 3) Fics where Arthur is the servant have probably been done before, but I just wanted to try writing one myself. 
> 
> 4) Criticism is welcome, but please be kind about it. I'm human and I make mistakes. 
> 
> 5) This fic is not being Beta-Read.
> 
> 6) I'm labeling it "Explicit" for future chapters, just to be safe.

Morning came without a sound. The silence was at odds with the ringing in his ears, his eyes unfocused as his fingers crushed the parchment in his grasp. It was inconceivable that his half-brother should be dead and he living, and yet the earnest entreaty in his hand tightened his innards. Dread settled inside him like the cold hand of King Oberon upon a shoulder, confirming the words with ease. Estienne Bayard swayed where he stood and sank down upon his winged chair, pre-empting the fainting spell he felt rising. It took a few hard and painful moments to push the fainting spell away, to regain the dignity his father instilled within him. He set aside the missive and spared it another glance. The deliberate and neat script was just visible upon the crumpled parchment. The harsh truth stared at him.

When he rose from the chair, he was every inch of the monarch he was raised to be and every inch the brother he chose to be. His white dressing gown glowed in the candlelight drenching his chambers from every corner. His morning circlet glinted.

“This means war.”


	2. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the chapter is a little short on dialogue, but I'm aiming to improve the dialogue-description ratio in future chapters. Regardless, I'd like to know what you think!

Looking up at the castle made him ache. Tom said it was normal for a boy to have dreams of grandeur, especially one such as him. Whatever that meant. Either way, the ache wasn’t the good kind. It wasn’t the one he suffered every time the local farmers hired him to swing the scythe, or the miller had him heft the sacks of flour to be brought to market. It wasn’t the one that flushed his skin and turned his tunics ripe with sweat. Honestly, he thought it was more like the one he suffered when the winter bug snared him suddenly, the acrid taste of vomit burning at the back of his throat as he soiled his trousers before he knew what was happening, his face paling in pain before flooding with shame and fleeing from the market while Gwen shouted after him in concern.

But he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop himself from slipping away and gazing up at her, watching her glow in the moonlight that peaked out from behind clouds every few minutes. The castle was beautiful. It was large, but not obnoxious, and stood sentinel over the lower town like a guard. How it ached to look at her, to watch the glow of candles disappear from the windows as King Bayard and his household slipped into slumber, stealing away from the world the way Arthur stole away from the forge. He watched the archers and crossbow men patrol the ramparts and felt a pang in his gut. Arthur wanted to be one of those men entrusted with peoples’ safety, wanted to use his bulk for more than helping in the fields and hefting flour, and working the bellows in the heat of the forge while Gwen rained blows upon glowing steel with her hammer and Tom sharpened blades as she finished with them. It wasn’t that he wanted to wield weapons. He just...wanted to help, more than he could now, more than he was allowed.

Arthur wasn’t allowed to join the ranks. He wasn’t allowed to test his mettle against the captain of the guard and begin training afterwards. Not like other young men his age, or even men younger than him.

Swallowing, Arthur turned away, his shoulders slumping. He wasn’t unhappy. Truthfully, he was almost content with his lot in life, but sometimes...sometimes the longing to be part of something bigger took hold of him and refused to let go, no matter how much it ached to think about it. He hastened back to the house and slipped through the door, his footsteps loud in the darkness. Stealth wasn’t one of his skills. Arthur glanced toward the narrow bed by the far wall and held his breath until Tom’s sleeping figure came into view, ageing face squashed against the threadbare pillow. It still bore his youthful and disfigured attempts at embroidery, when Gwen dared him to be a girl for a week. Something softened inside him even as he recalled the humiliation of being squashed into a dress, of all things, and Elyan laughing until he’d cried. Arthur released a sigh and continued through to the small room that he and the others shared.

Gwen took one narrow bed for herself.

He and Elyan slept at opposite ends of theirs, wrestling with each other for more space from time to time, but his adoptive brother wasn’t back yet. He wouldn’t return for another hour or two, having joined the ranks a few years ago, and would then be too exhausted to wrestle for space.

Arthur closed the door gently, his gaze slanting towards his adoptive sister, whose light snores used to keep him awake for hours when he’d first moved into this second room. He used to sleep in the main room with two strong and welcoming arms wound around him and one large hand carding warm and soft through his hair, soothing away the night terrors that he couldn’t even remember now. It wasn’t proper, really, sharing a room with his sister, but space wasn’t something they could afford now, or ever. He stripped out of his clothes and climbed into his nightwear, into his trousers too worn to face the world outside and his latest white tunic that made him look virginal and pure, pure as a girl almost. It was a running joke between himself and Gwen – one he wasn’t willing to let go now that he’d grown.

He crawled into bed and pulled the threadbare blanket over him. He buried his face in the too-hard pillow, and failed to resent Gwen for having the softest pillow in the house. Arthur knew she deserved it. She mightn’t have joined the ranks like her brother, but her craft helped people. It helped more than he could anyway.

The following morning, Arthur woke with a sigh and averted his gaze when Gwen stumbled out of bed. He remained still until Gwen disappeared in a flourish of fabric, humming under her breath. She was always happy, always warm and bubbling over with so much enthusiasm that sometimes he could only stare at her, awed that nothing could get in her way, that nothing could stop her from doing what she wished. He envied that unquenchable assurance. Slowly, Arthur rose from the bed once he was certain she wouldn’t return and dressed in a fresh tunic and trousers, his fraying belt almost ready to snap when he secured it around his waist. It would last another month or so, he wagered and then he’d have to get another, but he needed to start saving now.

Leather wasn’t cheap, not like the various odds and ends he picked up for Gwen and her dressmaking from time to time. Fortunately, it wasn’t as expensive as silk either. Twice, he’d scrounged enough to buy a swath of silk from the traders that made camp at the edge of town every summer, selling their foreign wares. He’d grimaced at the price, but the crushing embrace he received afterwards had been worth it. Gwen had spent more than a month staring at the bundle, her eyes warm with promise, before coming to a decision at last. When he’d seen the outcome, the way the silk had flown over her figure, he’d been too impressed for words: she’d looked like a princess or a queen perhaps. But Gwen could look like a queen when forging a blade, and so that wasn’t really a surprise when he took a moment to think about it.

Arthur wore a smile when he emerged from their shared room. He wore one every morning, even though sometimes he wanted nothing more than to scowl and glare into his breakfast. When he was younger, his scowls and outbursts of anger were commonplace, provoked by the restrictions his name carried. Now, older and perhaps a little wiser, Arthur wasn’t angered by those restrictions anymore, but resigned to the matter. His future was dictated by one man alone, and that man wasn’t him. It wasn’t for him to decide whether he could be a guard or an archer, or even whether he could be married and father children in the distant years spreading out before him like a swath of grass. That choice was taken from his hands the moment King Bayard claimed Camelot for his own.

Arthur bestowed a kiss upon Gwen’s cheek as he passed and jumped into preparing breakfast. Doing so, he felt the tension in his shoulders ease. It might have seemed such a trivial thing, but preparing meals made him feel useful. Made him feel as though he wasn’t quite the burden he knew himself to be at times. He knew it wasn’t easy, feeding four people, even with the added income from his work as a farmhand and errand-boy or his brother’s wages from the guardhouse’s coffers. Tom had struggled in the beginning, but somehow he’d managed to put food on the table, and the odd garment in the wardrobe shared between his two children and the younger spare he’d taken in because his heart was kinder than his income allowed. Kinder than Arthur felt he deserved sometimes. He just hoped Tom knew how much he appreciated it – even when that appreciation seemed more distant than the White Mountains.

Breakfast was accompanied by the usual ruckus. Elyan stumbled into wakefulness, stubbing his toe on the door _again_ and cursing up a storm like a crazed magician. Gwen and Tom discussed the commissions yet to be completed in the forge. Arthur inquired about the patrol at the castle, ducking his head to conceal the way his face heated when his brother gave him that look – the one that said he was too transparent for words.

“Fine,” Elyan answered all the same, his dark eyes carrying the apology the twist of his mouth lacked. His voice quietened. “The hours seem longer all the time, but the work is more honest than some of the nobles parading through the castle. Honestly, I don’t know how His Highness can stand half of them.” Elyan released a burst of laughter, shaking his head. “His patience is impressive.”

“Training does that to a person.” Arthur grimaced at the mere thought. “Camelot can’t afford sparking an internal feud or worse because His Highness can’t keep his mouth shut. He’d have been trained from birth to smile at your face, and rearrange your entire life as soon as you turn your back. Don’t let that calm and kind facade fool you,” Arthur finished sagely, spooning the last of his porridge into his mouth. “I bet he’s an ogre behind closed doors.”

“Like you, you mean?”

Arthur looked at Gwen in surprise, his mouth gaping like the fish at market. He pinched her, his reflexes faster than a blink. His sister shrieked and batted him away, bolting from her chair, laughing when he charged after her. His revenge was swift and merciless when he captured her, his quick fingers finding the weak spots he knew by heart and earning staccato bursts of laughter. It ended with the pair of them toppling over, and knocking the skillet from where it hung, earning a resounding clang that made the pair of them clutch their ears at once. Elyan applauded. Tom scolded. Gwen lamented the dent in the skillet. Arthur smiled innocently, his mind cringing at the damage he’d caused. Just like it had cringed when he was a child and his clothes had been ruined when the weaver’s son shoved him into the mud. He’d cried when Jeffrey stood over him and sneered that he wasn’t one of them. That he was nothing more than an abandoned pup, whimpering in a burlap sack. He’d sobbed even as Gwen burst out of the forge, wielding a small hammer, and threatened to knock Jeffrey’s head from his shoulders.

Shying away from the memory, Arthur picked up the skillet and carried it into the forge. One of them would fix it later, he knew, and it would be as good as new. Almost. Returning, he pressed an apologetic kiss to Gwen’s temple and readied to leave before something could trigger another trip down recollection road. He wasn’t fond of such memories. He wasn’t fond of the way his shoulders tightened at once and his lungs attempted to suffocate him. Nor was he fond of the soft looks of concern and understanding Gwen gave him whenever it happened. Somehow, she just knew when darker memories plagued him even when he acted cheerful and carefree, and no one else seemed to notice. She was an attentive woman and sweeter than any other, and she would make some man content in the distant future. Honestly, he might have married her himself had their circumstances been different.

The overpowering scent of livestock thickened the air when Arthur left the house, whistling to himself some tune he’d heard slurred in the tavern some weeks earlier, when he and his brother found time enough to spare for a pint of ale. A glance revealed the hustle and bustle where farmers and breeders and trainers attempted to seduce the onlookers with their fine cows and sheep, and their gorgeous horses. For a moment he thought he’d seen the Prince admiring a handsome chestnut mare, his pale fingers sliding over her muzzle, but a second look revealed no such man. Not that he cared. His Highness could look or not look at however many fine horses he pleased. It made no difference to Arthur. Ripping his attention away, Arthur quickened his pace to escape the sights and sounds of the market and left the lower town further behind with every step.

It wasn’t a terrible morning: the sky stretched above, endless and clear and a brilliant blue that made his spine slacken until he felt at ease. Lush and verdant grass stretched from the borders of the town to the woodland and the scent of nature surrounded him. Arthur inhaled sharply, letting the soft scent of foxgloves and honeysuckle seep into his bones as he veered away, heading for the thinnest part of the woods that would lead him to the farmland beyond. His fingertips trailed over the rough bark as he passed by, his attention sharp and darting, fastening upon everything that twittered or growled or moved. He loved nature, loved the foliage, and seeing the animals that dwelled within. He could still remember the first time Tom took him bird-watching, the pair of them secured to the upper trunk of a tree, hidden amongst the leaves with a magnifying glass that Gaius had loaned them; the old physician often encouraged such endeavours. He’d been seven at the time and terrified of such lofty places, adhering to Tom like a barnacle as the man climbed the tree with all the grace of a cat.

Trees didn’t bother him as much anymore. Honestly, he could camp out in a tree for several hours and never miss the ground. That was the thing about Tom. He could make the impossible seem manageable, even when reason argued otherwise. Arthur had never expected to climb a tree with ease, to look at the ground below him and feel nothing but a burst of exhilaration instead of the raw panic that once clawed his innards.

Whistling, Arthur emerged from the woodland to see the sprawl of countless fields used to feed the common people and nobles alike. Without the common people, the men and women who knew the land and how to nurture her, nobles were powerless.

But working as a farmhand was exhausting. He worked from the moment he arrived until long past midday, his tunic clinging to him with sweat and his hands aching. His duties were never the same. During the year, his time was divided between harvesting, ploughing, and sowing, collecting ripe apples and strawberries from the orchards. Not to mention milking the cows. Somehow, despite his initial reserve when presented with a cow, he’d become something of a natural in the long years since – a fact the other farmhands found hilarious for reasons he’d rather not contemplate. Usually, Arthur avoided the other farmhands as much as possible, knowing an interaction would be nothing short of tempting disaster. He’d had his head shoved into a steaming cow pat the last time and he’d rather avoid a repeat performance.

Late in the evening, his purse heavier, Arthur arrived home with a pained grunt. His back was making an impressive attempt to kill him as the tensing muscles pulled at each bone that comprised his spine. He just wanted to crawl into bed. But that wasn’t an option. Not until he’d prepared and cooked supper, for which Tom and Gwen would be waiting, exhausted and hungry. Gwen was dozing upon the table when he slipped inside, her arm providing a meagre pillow, her raven curls haphazard.

Tom snored beside her.

A faint smile curled his mouth at the sight. Ignoring the urge to sleep, Arthur gathered the last of their food stores and prepared them in silence. His hands quivered with fatigue. He remained standing, knowing too well that taking a seat would reduce him to a similar state, and soon enough the aroma of a meagre stew wafted through the room. Gwen and Tom perked up at once, mouths salivating and stomachs grumbling, protesting the long hours without food.

“Smells delicious,” said Tom as he approached eagerly, poking his head over the steaming pot so the aroma hit his senses directly. An almost ecstatic expression flickered across his face as Tom inhaled. “Looks even better.”

Though satisfied pride wasn’t an uncommon feeling, Arthur still warmed at the praise and ordered him back to the table, his weariness forgotten in favour of ladling steaming stew into three bowls. He carried two, balanced the third between his chest and elbow, and joined them at the table with a grin. Supper was a quiet affair. The three of them almost inhaled their stew, far too tired to discuss the hours that had passed since breaking their fast that morning.

“Arthur,” said Tom sometime later, his face lined with exhaustion and his bowl empty, “would you mind heading up to the castle for me in the morning? The clamp Gaius wanted is ready, and I’m afraid we have too many commissions to get through tomorrow to spare Gwen.”

He wanted to say no. He wanted to urge Tom to choose someone else, to offer a coin to one of the children in the lower town and have them run the errand. Arthur acquiesced at once instead and rose from the table as Gwen rolled up her sleeves and gathered the ware just as she did every evening, but Arthur imagined it carried a tad more meaning now. Damn her, and her sympathetic fleeing.

Of course, his own discomfort gave him reason to vacate the main room. Everyone knew discussion of the castle made him uncomfortable. Swallowing, he pressed his back against the door in the other room and released a shaking breath before changing into his nightwear. Just the thought of setting foot in the castle, for the first time since before he could remember, made him feel strange. Like his skin had been pulled taut and now stretched across the broad span of his bones until his fears and doubts could be seen writhing within his stomach like serpents. Arthur just hoped he’d not encounter the King, whose tolerance for him was waning, now that he was far more than the helpless child he’d once been.

That hope made a home inside him as Arthur crawled into bed and hid beneath the cover, curling up like a young boy, tucking the warmth around him.


	3. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really glad you folks are enjoying the fic so far. I have a few chapters written already, so updates will be quicker for now, but then should slow as I keep working on the ones that follow. Hope you don't mind. Let me know what you think!
> 
> Warning: this chapter contains blood and a scene some people might find disturbing, so, feel free to skip past those bits, if you'd prefer. 
> 
> Disclaimer: one scene may be familiar, but I just wanted to see how different circumstances could affect it. ;)

Arthur swallowed his frustration. The door in front of him remained silent despite his anger, despite the colour rising in his face as yet another guard strode around the far corner, laughing his damned head off at his expense. It wasn’t a surprise that a group of chambermaids had sent him on a wild goose chase, their explicit directions leading him all over the castle without once leading him to Gaius’ chambers. He’d hoped one of them would have been kind enough to show him the way, or at least not lead him astray on purpose, but it was obviously too much for him to hope for. Arthur waited until the guard disappeared before slamming his forehead against the solid oak in front of him and growling, trying his best to keep his temper under control; an explosion of temper would just land him in a heap of trouble.

“Pardon me,” said a curious voice, “but are you a bit lost? Can I help?”

Arthur spun around so fast he almost managed to impale himself upon Gaius’ commissioned clamp, his heart pounding. He wanted the stone floor to swallow him at once when he realised who approached from the near end of the corridor, narrow but strong shoulders showcased by a handsome leather coat that reached almost to his ankles. The Prince of Camelot and Mercia smiled at him in welcome, large ears not even concealed by the tendrils of hair that curled around them. The coat was almost blacker than his hair, which was an impressive feat. Not that Arthur would ever admit such a thing aloud.

“I don’t want to trouble you, Sire,” Arthur answered roughly, bowing his head when he remembered the Prince had asked him a question. He stared down at His Highness’ boots as they came to a stop in front of him. _Too close_ , a voice whispered at the back of his mind as his vulnerable neck prickled and reminded him of the ease with which he could lose his head and have it topple across the cobblestones he’d crossed earlier that morning. The leather boots were as impeccable as the coat and polished to an impressive shine, extending up his calves and emphasising the subtle strength there. Arthur raised the clamp. “But I’m looking for Gaius. I’m to deliver this new clamp to him.”

“I’m heading there now, so you can come with me.” The bright and cheerful note in his voice was as painful to hear as his inane smile was unbearable to witness when Arthur risked a glance. His Highness strode past him in a swirl of leather, an aura of expectation following behind him like smoke. Arthur followed at once, and took note of the passing corridors and staircases until he was confident he could find his way through the castle whenever he might need to, though he hoped he never would. The Prince babbled the entire way, seeming oblivious to the way passing chambermaids stared in surprise and outrage. Quickening his pace, Arthur ducked his head to avoid their ire and was positive that Fate was cackling, wherever she was. Damn her. “Here we are,” the Prince announced some time later, smile broadening into a grin that stretched from ear to impressive ear. It wasn’t a surprise that Arthur found himself almost back at the start of his journey, where he’d asked that sentinel for directions when he'd first entered the castle. “You head inside. Tell him I’ll be just a moment.”

A determined expression chased away the grin and Arthur almost forgot to bow, he was so startled by the sudden change. For a moment it was all he could do to watch His Highness stride away, pale skin almost aglow in the sunshine as the man descended the steps at the end of the corridor and turned towards the main door – straight towards the guard he’d asked for directions earlier. Arthur felt his face heat. The truth of the matter must have been written all over his face, or perhaps he’d plucked the truth from Arthur’s mind like some scavenger over a carcass. Arthur pushed open the door and burst inside before he could overhear the Prince dressing the guard down...or congratulating him for a job well-done.

“Gaius,” Arthur exclaimed immediately, his voice loud over the creaking hinges. The door thumped against the stone as Gaius snapped to attention upon the platform above the main floor, where his collection of tomes continued unhindered. Unfortunately, the platform was so narrow the sudden shift in his equilibrium sent him wobbling, tome toppling from his grasp as Gaius overbalanced. Arthur blasphemed as he dropped the clamp and darted forward as the physician toppled over, crashing through the weakened railing. An explosion of splinters scattered everywhere.

The pair of them collapsed in a bedraggled heap, the one groaning in pain and the other squashed against the hard stone floor, out of breath and swallowing the agonised scream in his throat. There was something wrong, very wrong with his arm. Gaius shifted on top of him and a hoarse cry escaped Arthur, who stared and stared and stared at the blood drenching his sleeve and staining the back of Gaius’ robes. He wasn’t certain what happened between one moment and the next and blinked to find he was stretched out atop the physician’s worktable.

Arthur stared up at a pair of grim faces he recognised.

His vision swam as Gaius pushed and manipulated his broken skin...his bloodied bone that punctured the air like a knife. Laughter bubbled up inside him at the concern inscribed upon pale features. Of course, some part of him knew this wasn’t humorous, knew this was an unfortunate event with the potential for catastrophic consequences, but Arthur found it hard to focus on anything but the sudden glow of gold and the deep twitch in his arm as the bone slotted back into place.

Gaius nodded.

His Highness looked relieved.

And Arthur...watched the pull of thread through his skin as Gaius stitched him up, sealing the wound as much as he could. It was strange to be without pain as his skin was pierced and manipulated until stitches stretched down his arm in as neat a line as could be made – which wasn’t very neat, at all. Almost looked like a horde of ants. Arthur laughed again and let his head rest against the table beneath him. He hummed until the pair of them drew away, watching him as the room stopped swimming, and pain returned like a slap to the face. He swallowed a second scream and cursed loudly, earning the beginning of a smile from His Highness that made his face heat and then drain of colour in rapid succession. Arthur rolled his head and stared at the line of stitches and wanted to throw up, because that was his good arm and what if he never...what if he _never_...

“Your arm will recover, but you’ll have to be careful for the next month or so, Arthur.” The words summoned a noise comprised of both distress and relief as Gaius approached once more and stopped him from rising; pushed his shoulders down until his back thumped against the table. “That means no jostling,” Gaius cautioned sternly, his eyebrow of doom rising with grave promise, “of any kind. I want you to rest.”

Arthur stared up at him as though the physician had grown a second head out of his wizened shoulders. Rest was out of the question. It was impossible. He had to earn an income. Arthur couldn’t afford to be without an income for an entire month or more – not when the cost of new fabric and iron ore and food and upcoming taxes depended upon their united collection of earnings. Gaius was more than aware of that fact: he and Tom were close friends. This had to be some sort of farce, but Gaius never made jokes. Not about a person’s wellbeing. The urge to vomit returned suddenly, and Arthur might have succumbed to the urge had the Prince not stepped forward and said carefully, “You can attend me while you recover, if you don’t mind. I’m in need of a new manservant anyway.”

“What do you imagine,” snapped Arthur, the word escaping upon a sneer, “a man with the use of a single arm can do for you?”

His Highness blinked in surprise, and Arthur had a single moment to regret the use of his stupid tongue before he answered sharply, “I’m sure even an arse like you can fetch supper, or carry some scrolls for me. You aren’t less capable just because your arm is broken and even if you were, there’d still be more than enough for you to do.” The Prince released a breath and looked at Gaius. “Send him to me when he decides to be civil.”

Arthur swallowed.

That sounded...not good.

“Of course, Sire.” Gaius inclined his head in acknowledgement and acceptance, and waited until His Highness left the room before turning a glare upon Arthur. “You know that wasn’t necessary; he doesn’t have to offer a position in his household just because you have a broken arm.” Gaius pottered around for a moment as he scoured his chambers for something to use as a splint and continued with a smidgen more kindness than before, “But I suppose I should thank you, even though what you did was incredibly stupid. You could have broken your neck or worse; I’m not exactly a featherweight.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“At least you haven’t lost your sense of humour.” Gaius returned to the worktable with a small smile and lined the splint against Arthur’s broken arm. His capable hands bound the splint there with several cords of sturdy leather, all of which felt like fire against his bruised and swollen skin. The sleeve of his tunic had been cut away some time ago, leaving him bare from the shoulder down. “Now, I recommend you take a moment to calm yourself before I send you to the Prince. If you’re determined to decline his generous offer, could you at least attempt to be civil until you’re done? Merlin doesn’t deserve your misplaced anger; he’s a good man and was just trying to help.”

Arthur grunted. He ground his argument into powder between his teeth and rose slowly, careful not to jostle his arm too much as Gaius fussed over him like a mother hen.

“Whatever.” Arthur avoided looking at Gaius as the physician turned an inscrutable stare upon him. “Just tell me where he went.”

Arthur listened to each instruction and categorized them in his head. He could see the layout of the castle building there, expanding with every shift in direction that Gaius provided. It wasn’t that complicated. Using his uninjured hand to wave, Arthur vacated the room after taking a potion for the pain and mentioned the clamp on his way out. A word of gratitude followed him before the door shut behind him. Referring to his mental map, Arthur strode unhurried through the castle, scowling whenever someone stared at his arm as he passed. He was more than aware of its appearance at his side; he didn’t need it pointed out to him on every damned corridor.

An unremarkable door concealed the chamber Gaius directed him to and it stared at him in silent accusation as Arthur hesitated outside. He knew he ought to enter and apologise, and yet he dithered for a long moment as his teeth threatened to crack under the force of his clenched jaw. The idea of serving the man that usurped his position and his home wasn’t one he fancied, but the thought of his siblings suffering for his pride was one even more detestable, and so he knocked.

It was a surprise when the door swung open at his touch and revealed a vast chamber that should never have fit into the dimensions of the room; it was at complete odds with the mental map laid out across his mind and developed by the segments of the castle he’d seen in conjunction with the verbal layout Gaius gave him.

It wasn’t natural.

A warm wave of magic washed over him as Arthur crossed the threshold and stared around the chamber in growing awe. Each wall stretched farther than they should have and two of them bore countless shelves lined with thick tomes and odd trinkets and items he couldn’t begin to describe. He didn’t even know what they were or for what purpose a person could use them – except for something dubious and magical. The idea made him shiver. Magic wasn’t a crime, of course, and he was more than used to its presence now, but rumour spoke of an unquenchable power in Camelot and he was starting to wonder whether that power lived within the Prince, who floated in the middle of the chamber in a meditative trance. Arthur stared at the stretch of empty space between Prince Merlin and the stone floor.

There were numerous practitioners of magic within the castle, but Arthur had never heard of one using magic unconsciously the way His Highness seemed to. That he could do such a thing at all spoke more of the power in his grasp than any person waxing lyrical could have. Of course, that was all the more reason for Arthur to flee as fast as his legs could carry him and never look back over his shoulder, and part of him wanted to do that more than anything...but he wasn’t a coward. He wasn’t one, no matter how many times he’d whispered such fears to Tom after yet another encounter with Jeffrey, and the countless others that jeered at his side. Too kind for his own good. That’s what Tom said whenever such fears made an appearance, and that continued kindness in the face of those who sought to hurt him and reduce him to nothing was just a different kind of courage, one that his late wife would have been proud of. Refusing to let them win was courage.

Arthur inhaled sharply, and opened his mouth to accept the offer made. Then he cringed when Prince Merlin lost focus and plummeted to the floor, where he lay in a heap, groaning, pale hands scrabbling at the stone until he managed to push himself back up. Golden eyes extinguished in an instant to reveal a face full of shamefaced embarrassment and Arthur wanted to sigh because this had to be a farce. It was impossible that this...this idiot would inherit the throne, not when he couldn’t even keep his emotions secreted away, like the visiting noblemen Arthur had seen riding past in his youth. How was he supposed to rule when his every flaw was written across the pale plains of his face?

It was a joke – one that fell flatter than a blade of grass.

A moment passed before the embarrassment faded and remembered indignation returned. Arthur looked away, aware that this was the moment to apologise and that he ought to, but acknowledging his wrongs aloud had never been his strongest feature. The words that escaped were stilted and slow, hesitant upon his tongue, and he remembered to inject the proper title as an afterthought. His face prickled with heat.

“That’ll do.” Prince Merlin strode past him in a blaze of sudden energy, smiling as though he wasn’t infuriated with him just moments earlier. He was a bizarre man. “Come now, and we can get everything sorted before the day is through. I’ll have the antechamber prepared for you and your possessions collected at once.”

His Highness continued speaking as he and Arthur moved through the corridors. The latter did so surreptitiously, as though someone might come along and throw him in the dungeons for breathing in the man’s presence. But that was stupid and Arthur knew it. He wasn’t going to be arrested for being nattered at by the Prince of Camelot and Mercia. That wasn’t a crime or half the people in the castle would have been rotting in the dungeons already. Arthur swallowed his fear, and focused on the noble striding ahead of him with those legs that continued forever, and spoke when spoken to. Which wasn’t often. Truthfully, Prince Merlin seemed content with babbling, regardless of whether Arthur was listening, and he most certainly was. It was never wise to ignore a nobleman.

The rest of the day passed in this manner, the edges blurring as Prince Merlin arranged matters with an air of inexplicable enthusiasm that made him feel strange.

A wave of gratitude washed over Arthur when he was directed into the antechamber, which was twice as large as the room he shared at home and wasn’t meant to be. It was like the chamber in which he’d found the Prince: larger once you opened the door. Arthur looked around as Prince Merlin hovered in the doorway, pale features open and companionable, far too companionable for comfort. His fingertips grazed the fine wardrobe that was larger and more handsome than a mere servant should have warranted and wasn’t certain how to express the weight of his appreciation. He was in the midst of struggling to form such an admission when his observer took a step away, saying, “You may take this evening to rest and grow accustomed to being here, but I expect you to wake me in the morning; I have a council meeting an hour after dawn.”

Prince Merlin shut the door, leaving him to admire the rest of the antechamber alone.

Swallowing his gratitude, Arthur sighed and looked out the small window that shouldn’t have existed to watch the coming and going of people in the courtyard. That would be him on the morrow, coming and going, fetching this and that for another man. It would be a fine wage, however, or so His Highness assured him and that was an immense weight lifted from his shoulders. It was a relief to know his family would be looked after, and compensated should anything happen to him while working in the household. Not that he’d get into a lot of scrapes with a broken arm. Turning away from the window, Arthur sat on the edge of the larger-than-warranted bed and released a little moan of surprised pleasure when he sank into the mattress.

Two weeks later, Arthur wanted to scream in frustration. Instead he shoved yet another damned log into the fireplace and watched the fire crackle around it with a vindictive pleasure. He was restless. Normally, his work in the fields and the errands he ran for some of the other men in town drained him enough to sleep, but now he wasn’t as exhausted when he finished his chores in the evening. He couldn’t even perform half the tasks listed in his job description and that left him tense at the prospect of being replaced – King Bayard suggested replacement at least twice a day. It never seemed to matter how well he managed to perform his other duties: the running of missives and messages and other such errands that made his master smile despite Arthur’s outbursts of restless anger.

“You know,” Merlin mused from where he sat treating his longbow, his confident hands almost caressing the damned thing, “I can have those logs arrested.”

“Shut up.”

Merlin laughed in response and set aside his bow, rising from the edge of the bed with a feline grace that wasn’t enviable – not in the least – because he wasn’t enviable at all or even likeable. What an unimaginable bastard. Merlin crossed the room and dropped to his knees beside him to wrestle another log from his grasp, saying, “What’s the matter with you? You’ve been like a bear for the last week and a half!”

Arthur shook his head and reached for the log, but Merlin refused to relinquish the accursed thing. Instead he continued to stare at Arthur, close and intense in a way that Arthur had come to detest in so short a time. It seemed as though his master could see straight inside him to that vulnerable core, the one he tried his hardest to hide. It made him squirm in place. Arthur looked away, his throat working around harsh words that threatened to burst out of him and yet he knew Merlin wouldn’t deserve them. His master was far more reasonable than most of the nobles in the castle – half of whom looked at him as though he were an insect to be crushed at the first provocation and half of whom looked at him as though he were to be pitied like an abandoned dog. He wasn’t certain which he hated more.

“I suppose I’m just used to falling into bed in the evening,” Arthur mumbled finally, uncertain when his mind started referring to his master without his title, “and sleeping until dawn. I’m used to working myself to the bone and I can’t do that now, and I hate it. Why can’t one of the sorcerers here just heal my arm and send me on my way? What use is magic if it can’t make life easier for people?”

“Arthur, magic has a price.” Merlin touched his shoulder. Arthur’s attention snapped sideways. The intense stare faded into something softer, something warmer than the fire crackling in front of them. “Sometimes the price is just feeling tired and sore, but other times it requires something with a lot more weight. If something can be done without sorcery, then it should be...including healing this arm of yours.” A warm burst of laughter escaped Merlin when Arthur grimaced in distaste. “Come with me. I think I know something that might cheer you up.”

Grumbling, Arthur put the guard in front of the fireplace and rose as Merlin did the same beside him with an ease that _might_ have been a little enviable. His own splinted arm just made such simple movements harder to perform. Still grumbling, Arthur eased his way into his new coat when he noticed his master doing so, aware now that they’d be leaving the castle and stepping outside. Gwen had tailored the new coat and a few other things for him when she learned of his new position in the castle. Apparently, she’d wanted him to look his absolute best and to feel proud while in the Prince’s service, but she’d outdone herself with these new clothes and it left him feeling as though he were attempting to don airs and graces no mere servant was meant to have. He clutched the coat closed at his throat as his splinted arm made dressing painful and cumbersome. Only the thought of stepping outside the antechamber made him brave the pain long enough to slip into a tunic in the morning, and just the thought of Merlin bursting in unannounced – as he seemed to do everywhere else – made him brave it at night.

For once, Merlin never nattered to him as Arthur followed him through the castle. Normally, the man couldn’t shut up, and Arthur wasn’t certain whether this sudden silence was an improvement or whether it made things so much worse. Clutching his coat tighter, Arthur ignored the glares from the guards as the pair of them passed through the main doors and descended the stone steps before veering away from the courtyard. His breath hitched when he realised where Merlin was leading him and he turned to stare at his master, unable to quite believe what his mind was telling him until he was confronted with the overpowering scent of horse and hay.

More than two dozen horses pushed their heads out over the doors keeping them penned as Arthur and Merlin entered the stables together, and whinnied in excitement as Merlin waved at them. It was obvious that the horses adored him. Happiness chased away the restless anger that had bubbled inside him and Arthur almost tripped over a bucket in his haste to get closer, close enough to see the shine of good health upon the nearest horse. Merlin moved past him to soothe the now startled horse and stroked pale fingers over a rich brown muzzle, murmuring under his breath as he stared into warm and intelligent eyes. Jealousy struck Arthur like a slap, knowing that this should have been him. It should have been him leading Merlin into the stables for the first time and soothing the handsome horse standing in the stall. But it wasn’t and Arthur had to swallow his jealousy, had to swallow the harsh truth of the matter.

It wasn’t important.

“Arthur,” Merlin chided gently, “come here and say hello to Hengroen.”

Arthur stepped forward as ordered. He was hesitant now, wary of alarming the horse all over again. It was when Merlin snared his wrist and guided him closer that Arthur relaxed and let his hand be raised until it hovered a few inches from the horse’s muzzle. Hengroen snuffled at him and Arthur wanted to weep when that muzzle pushed at his palm. Warm breath ghosted over his skin.

“What a magnificent creature,” Arthur whispered raggedly, awed when the horse moved past his palm to snuffle at his wrist and underarm before settling at his head. Gentle lips pulled at his hair. Wet heat trickled down his cheek. “He’s incredible.”

“Normally, he’s a temperamental fellow,” his master answered quietly, “not unlike someone I know, but I reckon he likes you. He hasn’t taken to anyone but me until now, and he abhors my uncle.” Merlin looked at him and his expression was just as intense as earlier, but far sharper than usual. Arthur turned his face away, hid himself behind a mane of dark hair and a proud frame as a shiver ran down his spine. “Horses like my uncle usually, so I’m sure this is a sign: Hengroen wants you to ride him. I’ll teach you when Gaius clears you for full duty, even if you intend to leave my employ.”

“I’d like that.” Arthur grimaced at the choked note in his voice, aware that he’d shown his emotions without quite meaning to. “Thank you so much. Sire.”


	4. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another chapter, folks. Feel free to let me know what you think!
> 
> Note: The character introduced in this chapter is an Arthurian Figure, and a Knight of the Round Table, though he never appeared in the show.

Arthur clenched his jaw, swallowing the grunt of exertion that rose, and continued to perform the exercises Gaius set him. Each exercise was designed to rehabilitate his arm and the weakened muscles therein. The stiffness made it difficult and it didn’t help that the squires were laughing, pointing at him and whispering, heedless of the unimpressed glare he sent their way. Arthur’s attention flicked over to the quick and light footwork of his master, whose skill with a blade wasn’t quite as exemplary as his skill with a longbow, but Merlin wasn’t incompetent either. Honestly, the intense expression on his face was almost frightening. Not that he would ever admit such a thing aloud: Merlin would never let him hear the end of the matter.

Steel clashed against steel as Merlin met a riposte from Sir Tor, the action bringing them almost close enough to steal a kiss. Arthur lowered his gaze. He refocused upon his exercises, no matter how loud their companionable match proved to be. But he stopped when the stiffness became an ache and returned his attention to the Knight and his master, who bantered as the pair of them circled each other, flushed and sweaty, neither one willing to concede defeat.

Sir Tor was a grizzled fellow, one ravaged and scarred by battle, but he was handsome in his own manner. Or at least Arthur thought so. Sir Tor was one of the few men in Camelot that offered no jeers or slander when Arthur came close, but treated him with the same respect he treated the other servants in the castle. He too was the orphaned son of a slaughtered father, and was later adopted by Councillor Ares, most trusted advisor to the King of Camelot and Mercia and the mastermind behind the siege of the castle two decades ago. It was Sir Tor that emerged the victor, standing tall and proud over a disgruntled Merlin that sprawled across the grass and released a feeble groan of exhaustion as he struggled to raise his arm when Sir Tor offered his hand.

Arthur suppressed a smile. Gathering the towel and wineskin of water, he rose from the bench and strode across the grass until he reached the tired pair.

“Arthur,” greeted Sir Tor, his scarred face growing taut as his mouth curled in a small smile that he seemed to wear whenever Arthur approached. “How are you? Are you faring better?”

“Some.” Heat prickled his face. It wasn’t the first time Sir Tor had enquired about his healing arm. Sir Tor had done so ever since Merlin told him the whole pathetic tale over a pint of ale down at the tavern. It was no less embarrassing now than it had been the first time. Yet Arthur managed a grin even so and ignored his master’s growing smile of amusement in favour of elaborating. “I’m not quite there yet. Gaius said it shouldn’t be much longer, though.”

“That’s great news.” Sir Tor’s smile deepened. “I’m sure you’re eager to use your good arm again. Of course, I’m also certain His Highness has far better things to do than listen to us prattling, so I shall take my leave of you both.”

With a deep bow for Merlin and a lesser one for Arthur, Sir Tor turned and strode away, beckoning to his squire as he did so. Arthur ignored the surge of satisfaction in his gut when the man cuffed the boy, berating him for his earlier laughter. Turning, he focused upon Merlin and scowled in the face of his knowing smile.

“What?”

Arthur threw the towel at his face. He wasn’t surprised when Merlin just laughed and shook his head. Merlin was more than capable of keeping his thoughts to himself in spite of his frequent babbling, and now employed the skill as he ran the towel over his face before tossing it back at him. With Arthur in tow, Merlin made his way back across the grounds and up the stone steps to the rear of the castle as he supped at the wineskin and listened to Arthur grousing in his ear. He groused a lot. He complained about something at least ten times a day, and his master never lost his patience. It was bizarre. Arthur would already have lost his temper, had it been his ear burning with incessant complaints and that knowledge only made him try harder. Some reckless part of him wanted to know, wanted to see such a companionable man break the restraints around his temper. However, Merlin seemed immune to such efforts. It was infuriating, and exhausting, and Arthur gave up when they reached the royal chambers.

Merlin beckoned him once he’d bolted the door, just as his master had instructed him to do since that first morning in his household. Arthur closed the distance between them and reached for the nearest vambrace, ignoring the urge to raise his head as his fingers undid the buckles with care, his movements a little stiff where the action made his arm ache. First one vambrace, and then the other, before reaching for the leather belt encircling a narrow and muscled waist. A waist he’d seen stretched across sheets more than once, his master sleeping nude, kept modest only by the blankets resting over the curve of his arse. He still wasn’t recovered from waking him that first morning, his face burning as Merlin’s backside woke before the rest of him and arched higher before Merlin lifted his face, squinting up at him in exhausted confusion.

Arthur rose on his toes to undo the buckles keeping the spaulder in place. A spasm of pain shooting through his arm and down his shoulder almost earned a whimper, his limbs tensing to regain his balance when a wobble brought him close, his chest grazing against cold chainmail not for the first time. It happened every time Arthur had to unbuckle the spaulder, the action a fraction too intense for his healing arm to yet bear, but he’d been one to push himself since he was a child. A spark of pain wasn’t going to stop him from performing his duties. He released a harsh breath and continued when the spasm settled somewhat as Merlin looked at him. Merlin always looked at him when the pain came, his pale face troubled where it ought to be grinning from ear to ear, but he never said a word. He never offered comfort or asked whether he wished to stop, respecting the fact that Arthur was his own man and would make his own decisions where his arm was concerned.

“You know, I’m starting to think accepting this position was the worst decision I’ve ever made. Getting up close and personal with you is a nightmare, especially after you’ve been training. I almost collapsed from the stench just now!”

“You’re such an arse, Arthur, and my uncle would have you in the stocks faster than you could insult me had he heard you say that.” Merlin smiled despite the irritation in his voice as Arthur set aside the spaulder, whipping the hauberk over his head in one smooth motion and bearing his muscled frame with a confidence that made Arthur glance away, toward the door. Just to be sure. The door remained as locked as he knew it would be, but his chest constricted anyway; that door was the only thing keeping him from a night in the dungeons and a swift death. Returning his attention to his duty, Arthur trapped and bound all such thoughts and shoved them in a dark corner, intending to ignore them for the rest of his natural life. Even so, his hands quivered when they reached for the crisscrossing laces keeping the trousers up, keeping them wrapped around hips that were too pale and too narrow, but strong, stronger than they ought to be. “You and I both know you’re all bark and no bite,” Merlin teased lightly, eyes crinkling. “Why can’t you just admit that you like me? No one would think any less of you.”

Arthur released a disdainful snort and glanced up, having dropped to his knees since he’d unlaced the trousers and was now reaching for the laces of his handsome boots. He made short work of unlacing them and answered snidely, “I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘ _tolerate_.’”

Merlin cuffed him.

“How many times must I tell you to leave my hair alone? You know how much I hate it when you do that and it hurts to reach up, you idiot.”

“Sorry.” Merlin aimed a warm smile down at him and he almost flinched when a gentle hand smoothed his hair, quick and efficient in ways the man rarely was. Arthur gripped the nearest boot and said nothing, wanting with all of his being to set his master on fire for being an evil bastard. “You know, the messy look suits you. You should wear it more often.”

“Sure.” His mouth curled in derision. Arthur rose and stepped away, turning to gather the chainmail and sword and armour, knowing Merlin would take care of the rest himself. He carried them to the antechamber, snapping over his shoulder, “The next time I want a moron to ruin my hair, I’ll make sure to call for you.”

The door slammed shut behind him with force enough to make Arthur cringe. Part of him detested the moments when his anger and fear took charge, but most of him was relieved to be free of Merlin for a while. Merlin was dangerous. It was obvious that King Bayard was a monster, but his nephew seemed harmless at first glance, which made the way he wriggled beneath a man’s skin twice as insidious. Grimacing, Arthur dumped the load in his arms on the bed and settled beside them once he’d snatched the required oils and rag from the table in the corner. Polishing armour was easier than dealing with Merlin and his teasing, with the weight that threatened to crush his shoulders whenever he thought about the laws that bound him in recent weeks – laws that denied him a future. Arthur polished his knuckles raw, decidedly not thinking about the countless possible futures denied to him because a man beheaded his father, futures where he and his wife and their children could be happy, where he could choose the path he walked himself.  

It took time and patience to polish the chainmail and sword and armour, his arm cramping every now and then and forcing him to take a reprieve. Of course, he wasn’t supposed to use his arm much outside of his exercises, but he knew it wouldn’t kill him. It wouldn’t even ruin his arm permanently, but it would lengthen the time needed to heal. That realisation made him freeze in place. His attention flicked towards the door, a noise of frustrated disgust and mounting anger escaping him. His hand tightened where it gripped the spaulder in his lap, his still mending arm protesting, sending several bursts of sharp pain shooting through him. His fingers twitched and released the spaulder. Arthur flinched at the sharp clang of steel against stone, his throat constricting around blasphemous words and his face paling when Merlin burst into the antechamber, his eyes aglow with magic.

“Haven’t you heard of knocking? Or have all those lessons in etiquette been wasted on you?”

“I thought –” Gold eyes scoured the room before fastening upon Arthur, who did his best to focus on the concerned expression melting into one of annoyed relief instead of the expanse of naked skin that stretched from head to toe. His hand twitched again. Merlin picked up the fallen plate of armour and set it aside, taking a seat on the bed with a sigh as the magic faded. “Never mind what I thought. Just don’t alarm me like that again please.”

“I can’t help the fact that my arm cramped and your stupid armour slipped from my grasp,” Arthur snapped with more force than he intended. Heat prickled his skin when Merlin looked askance at him. He glared down at his traitorous arm to avoid the earnestness there. “Anyway, you’re the one wound tighter than a damned longbow. Who on earth jumps to action like that over some falling armour?”

Merlin answered him with pained silence and rose, the long lines of his frame moving with that grace he’d noticed before – the one that emerged when he was the confident sorcerer, not the curious and companionable nobleman that tripped over his own feet from time to time and smashed his face against a stone wall. It was the same grace that made it so much harder and so much easier to like such an unlikeable bastard. Arthur returned to his polishing, refusing to acknowledge the long and unfathomable stare that Merlin aimed at him before he swept out of the antechamber, leaving him on his own once more. He did that from time to time and Arthur couldn’t fathom the reason behind him doing so, often spending his twilight hours mulling over such moments. He’d mull over them until his mind gave up, succumbing to the renewed sense of fatigue that settled over his limbs now that he could perform more of his duties without giving into bouts of anger and restless frustration. It irked him. Why should Merlin get to poke and prod at him until Arthur opened up, but remain silent when Arthur dared to return the favour?

That thought bothered him for the next three weeks and Arthur continued to mull it over as he moved his arm under Gaius’ careful inspection after being prodded and massaged for almost half an hour. His attention snapped back onto the physician when Gaius touched his shoulder, saying, “Arthur, you’ll be pleased to know your arm has mended well and you won’t have to continue those exercises, but I imagine Merlin will be sad to see you go. He’s been quite alone this past year, you know, ever since that poor boy was killed.”

“Boy?” Arthur stared at Gaius in surprise. His hand froze, having been in the middle of rolling down the wrinkled sleeve of the rich blue tunic Sir Tor had complimented that morning, when he’d run a message to him from Merlin. “What boy?”

“You mean he hasn’t warned you?” Gaius hummed in disapproval and turned away, gathering ingredients for some tincture or salve to be prepared at the worktable. “Someone planted a venomous serpent in his rooms last year and it wound up in the antechamber, having slithered through the door that Morris never closed on his way out. It bit him while he was polishing armour.” Arthur stared at Gaius as the physician continued speaking, his throat constricting and his heart hammering as he recalled the way Merlin burst into the antechamber, eyes burning gold. “He was a clumsy boy, dropping things constantly, and Merlin never checked on him until it was too late. His reflexes alone spared him from sharing Morris’ dreadful fate.”

“Was the person responsible imprisoned?”

“I’m afraid not.” Gaius separated the ingredients and assorted them in order, beginning with a few spices that needed to be crushed with mortar and pestle. Arthur watched his wrist work with practiced ease. “Merlin searched high and low, but he never discovered the culprit. It was a terrible shame; Morris was such a kind soul and he would have made a wonderful healer, given some training. I wanted him as an apprentice, but he never had time enough to come learn when he wasn’t running and racing around the castle. One of the perks of being manservant to the Prince, I suppose, never having time for yourself.” Gaius shook his head and tipped the ground remains of the spices into a small jar. “I’m surprised Merlin never told you. He was never one to endanger someone without fair warning, and a man in your position ought to have as much warning as you can get.”

“Merlin did assure me that Tom and the others would be cared for, should anything happen to me in his service.” Arthur flicked his attention downward. He stared at the scar that stretched along his forearm and recalled the reckless actions that earned the hideous thing, which then earned his position in the royal household – a position coveted by some and scorned by others. Merlin must have seen something in him...something that made him break the solitude he’d chosen after Morris was killed. He wasn’t certain what to make of that idea. “I think that counts as some warning, don’t you?”

Gaius harrumphed.

Arthur smiled and finished rolling down his sleeve, glad to have the scar hidden. He hated it when people stared as he passed in the corridor or cringed at the sight of it as though he’d chosen the scar out of spite. Just so he could sicken them. It wasn’t his fault the wound had been jagged. Arthur strode through the castle and found his meagre possessions scowling at him when he returned to the antechamber, uncertain whether he wanted to pursue the plan he’d made that morning before seeing Gaius. He’d planned to pack his things as quick as he could manage and then pen a small missive – his penmanship wasn’t amazing, but it would have sufficed – to tender his resignation from the position before vacating the castle, hoping to escape before Merlin could walk in on him.

Now, he wasn’t certain whether he could go through with it. He wasn’t certain whether he even wanted to. Merlin was in a precarious position – one that courted danger at every turn – and it wasn’t right to expect a man to face that on his own. His master may have chosen solitude before, but something had urged him to leave it behind. Something had urged him to reach out and extend a hand to Arthur, a man he’d just met. He wasn’t about to leave that decision go to waste. Vacating the antechamber, Arthur searched the castle and grounds from top to bottom before enquiring after his master at the stables, discovering that Merlin had taken his temperamental charger for a much needed ride to relieve Hengroen’s frustration at being penned so often. He’d been kept penned but for his exercise because Arthur hadn’t been cleared for riding, just in case the charger had decided to throw him. His arm wouldn’t have fared well with such an incident.

Hengroen wasn’t a stranger, however. Arthur often came to visit the charger once he’d been granted leave to do so, allowing the horse to bond with him somewhat as he helped the stable hands groom him. He relished the chance to run his hands over the powerful frame, marvelling at the way muscles twitched and quivered at his touch and loving the way Hengroen tugged at his hair. Sometimes the horse even lipped at his face. Arthur loved every moment spent with that marvellous creature. He just hoped Hengroen would be patient with him...or at least patient enough not to bolt the moment he was seated in the saddle. His thoughts focused on the horse he’d ride, Arthur moved past the vacant pen and continued until he reached one of the few mounts Merlin favoured.

Llamrei was a gentle mare, but more fearless than some of the chargers used by the Knights when defending the land from the insurgent Saxons and roaming bandits. Her hide was a brown so deep; she could almost be mistaken for the night. Merlin favoured her the most. Arthur stroked her muzzle. His master had introduced him to all the mounts over the course of several weeks and most of them trusted him now, allowed him near enough to caress them and whisper in their ear, to help the stable hands groom them whenever he wanted. The few horses that remained uncertain of him belonged to His Majesty, whose contempt and suspicion seemed to double with every passing day, no matter how well Arthur served his nephew. He’d summoned Arthur just the other day, demanding to know what he was planning, his hand a tightening threat around his neck as King Bayard pinned him to his dining table. His genuine confusion and fear alone encouraged His Majesty to release him from his grasp and dismiss him from his presence. Arthur had to wear a stupid neckerchief under his new crimson doublet to conceal the bruises from his master, whose displeasure would have been made known at once.

It was no secret that Merlin Bayard had beaten the last nobleman to mistreat a servant in the household to a pulp in the arena. Arthur had seen the dreadful results with his own eyes, and while Merlin would never batter his uncle in such a manner, he wasn’t going to risk an open challenge in front of the court. He wasn’t stupid. Such an act would just fuel the distrust running rampant in the castle. Concealing his bruises, however, wasn’t a simple feat. Merlin was nosier than a hound on a scent and poked and prodded at everything he could get his damned hands on – and sometimes that included Arthur.

“You know, your rider is a pain in my arse,” Arthur grumbled as Llamrei pushed her head against his shoulder, allowing him to slip his arm up and around her neck in a tender embrace. “I hope that idiot appreciates how much bullshit I wade through in order to work here.”

Arthur might have said more, but for the sound of hooves clipping and clopping across the cobblestones outside. He fell silent instead. Communing with horses wasn’t something that often required speech. Looking askance, Arthur watched Merlin lead Hengroen into the stable and then into his pen himself despite the stable hands that swarmed around him like flies. Merlin grinned from ear to ear, his eyes sparkling, fingers running over a hot and sweaty hide with pride as praise dripped from his tongue; Hengroen seemed to preen under the attention. Arthur suppressed a smile and looked away, a huff of laughter escaping him. Honestly, it wasn’t even a surprise that Merlin doted upon the charger, even though he favoured his mare more. Merlin seemed to develop a strange affection for temperamental bastards – like almost all of his falcons and his prized hound. Those falcons hated Arthur and attempted to rip his face off whenever he came near, but Drudwyn was as indifferent towards him as a hound could be, and he supposed that was a blessing in comparison. Drudwyn adored Merlin. Just like every animal in existence seemed to do. It was beyond bizarre.

Looking down the stable, Arthur watched as Merlin tended to his charger, washing the sweat and dirt away with loving patience as Hengroen lipped at his raven hair and tugged with playful abandon. He dried Hengroen then and began grooming, his sure hands guiding the brushes with confidence, as though he’d spent a thousand years tending to horses. When Merlin noticed him watching, the idiot beamed from ear to ear, and Arthur ripped his focus away. He looked into those large, warm eyes in front of him instead. He stroked and kissed her muzzle until Merlin gripped his shoulder, squeezing, murmuring, “I thought you’d be long gone by now.”

“You wouldn’t last a week without me, you’re so incompetent.” His tone was sharp, his shoulders tense, but Merlin seemed to read through his insults regardless. “Sire, you can’t even dress yourself without tripping over your damned trousers. I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long without someone to look out for you.”

Arthur remembered where he was the moment the stable hands began whispering at the other end of the stable, their stares as sharp as knives and their smiles edged with derisive fire. Fear tightened his spine. He might have bolted from the stable had Merlin’s hand not squeezed harder, holding him in place, expression serene as he smiled where Arthur alone could see.

“Would it kill you to develop some manners, you ungrateful prat? Come along,” Merlin commanded as he hauled him away with a surge of controlled magic and a tight grip, releasing a dark chuckle when he almost tripped over a bucket and had to hop to regain his balance. His master escorted him past the stable hands that watched his every move, as though waiting for the most opportune moment to pounce upon him and beat him to death. “I’m sure Geoffrey has enough books on etiquette to last you a lifetime and then some.”

Several minutes later, Arthur swallowed a gasp as Merlin shoved him into a shadowed alcove in the upper floors of the castle and pushed him against the stone. Two hands fisted his tunic below the bobbing apple in his throat. “What on earth do you think you’re doing,” Merlin demanded angrily, the set of his mouth stubborn and his eyes sparking with hot embers of magic. “Do you want to spend a night in the dungeon or get flogged in the town square? Those stable hands would be the first to turn you over to my uncle for what you said!”

“Sire –”

“You can’t just assume that I’ll be able to get you out of whatever scrape you land yourself in because you can’t control that irritable mouth of yours.” His tone grew fierce and his hands tightened. Heart hammering, Arthur stared at Merlin...who seemed taller, as though his anger and determination had added several inches to his long frame. “Arthur, you need to start thinking; some day, I won’t be here to protect you.”

“ _Merlin_ –”

“I’m serious!”

“Will you just shut up for a damned minute?” Arthur blasphemed the moment Merlin released him and struggled to stop his chest from heaving, staring as the unspoken power rippled through his master in thick waves. It was a miracle the castle hadn’t exploded as soon as that power began building. “Firstly, just let me spend a night in the dungeon next time instead of manhandling me and secondly, I don’t need your protection. I don’t need you to feel responsible for everything I do!”

“But I am responsible!”

“No,” Arthur answered gently, his heart still pounding, but his mind slowing, recalling the conversation with Gaius at the sound of that agonised shout. He knew at once that Merlin wasn’t talking about the stables anymore, that he wasn’t even talking about Arthur. He reached out and gripped a pair of slender shoulders until Merlin met his stare with wet and red-rimmed eyes laced with enough guilt to choke on. Merlin may have been turning twenty that year, but he’d never looked so young and vulnerable until that moment. Arthur tightened his grip. “You’re not responsible. Not for what happened in the stables and not for what happened to Morris last year. That wasn’t your fault.”

Merlin ran the back of his hand over his face, wiping away the evidence of his pain as he shrugged free of Arthur’s grasp. Arthur watched his master pull himself back together, watched him pull a mask of indifference into place, and felt a sharp pang in his gut. Merlin wasn’t meant to look like that – like he’d been carved from marble, without a scrap of compassion inside. But he said nothing, allowing Merlin to take the space he needed as Arthur followed him back to the royal chambers, where he had Arthur send the nearest chambermaid to summon the bathing tub. Arthur helped his master undress behind the screen keeping him modest as the chambermaids soon flooded the bedchamber, a number of them carrying the bathing tub, and another group filling it with cold water.

Despite his words against using magic needlessly, Merlin always heated the water for his bath with a burst of magic to spare fuel needed for the winter.

Arthur averted his gaze as Merlin climbed into the bathing tub and kept it averted until Merlin hummed in pleasure, pale limbs disappearing beneath the water that heated at once. He began reorganising the mess of a writing desk while Merlin began washing, one hand armed with a bar of scented soap and the other a flannel cloth. The writing desk required reorganising every damned day, since Merlin seemed incapable of maintaining anything other than complete chaos. It irked him. He’d lost count of how often he’d snapped at his master, demanding to know who on earth would be stupid enough to keep maps and castle schematics and lists of organised patrols in open view, who would keep treaties and decrees to be signed lost within a haphazard heap of scribbled speeches that showed surprising promise, but for his tendency to ramble.

A frown furrowed his brow when he came across one condemning the shaming of noblewomen guilty of adultery, when noblemen far and wide did the same on a constant basis with nothing said to them. Another was devoted to the removal of obeisance from the marriage vows. Arthur glanced across at his master, his frown deepening, more than aware that such a thing would never pass into law. Not while King Bayard remained on the throne and not without an uprising from noblemen throughout the kingdom. It was brazen and reckless to leave such a speech in open view. Arthur stored those speeches and the maps, schematics and schedules in the drawer, locked the drawer at once and returned the brass key to its concealed compartment under the desktop.

“Give it here,” Arthur groused when he returned to the tub, snatching the rag from the hand struggling to wash the expanse of pale skin stretched over sinuous muscle and hard knobs of bone. He dropped to his knees and shoved his master, grinning when Merlin complained about his manhandling, before devoting his attention to washing his back. “How come you’re willing to use magic when heating your water, but never to cleanse your back or wash your hair? I think you like making me uncomfortable,” Arthur complained as he worked his way up from the base of Merlin’s spine to that little ridge at the bottom of his neck that just showed how deplorable his posture could be at times. He dropped the cloth back into the water once he was done and reached for the soap, just as he did every time he’d attended to Merlin in the bathing tub, working up a good lather in preparation for the assault upon raven hair.

Merlin melted in his grasp, as usual. It would have been hilarious had it not been terrifying, ripping open a chasm of chaos inside him at the thought of anyone discovering him with his hands all over His Highness. Not that they were all over him. Heat prickled his face at the notion. Merlin wasn’t even that attractive. He was all awkward and stupid and comprised of far too many angles that shouldn’t have made sense, but did nevertheless.

“This morning Sir Tor mentioned that King Rodor and his daughter will be visiting next week. How am I supposed to prepare for such events when you don’t even mention them to me? Am I meant to have anything readied for their visit? What clothes do you want me to have laundered for the welcoming banquet? Will I have a flower arrangement made for Her Highness?” A sudden thought came unbidden and Arthur gave his master a large and teasing smile. “Or would you rather I arrange a romantic supper for two?”

“No,” Merlin groaned in dismay, a grimace twisting his mouth even as Arthur dug his thumbs into his scalp, massaging. “No, please don’t arrange a supper _or_ flowers. And don’t you dare turn into my matchmaking uncle, you arse! I spent my summers in Nemeth as a child and Mithian has almost become a sister to me. Can’t I spend time with a woman without everyone assuming we’ll be married?”

“Forgive me, Sire. I meant no offense.” Arthur reached for the ewer and filled it with bathwater, encouraging Merlin to tip his head back and cupping his hand across his hairline. He poured water from the ewer, rinsing every inch of raven hair and doing his best to keep the suds from entering his eyes. “But you _are_ the prince and that means marriage has been on the table since birth. Sir Tor said she was an impressive woman and would make a strong ruler, so I just assumed you’d want Camelot...and Mercia to benefit from such a union.”

“Camelot and Mercia can reap the benefits of our close friendship. If and when I do marry, then I’ll have married for love and nothing less. I won’t be sold into marriage like a slave, Arthur, no matter what my uncle thinks.” Merlin gave him a hard look as he rose, wrapping a towel around his drenched waist as soon as Arthur shoved one into his waiting hands. Arthur ducked his head at once, avoiding the eyes now edged with sharpened steel and fire. “No matter what anyone thinks.”

“Even if that means Camelot won’t be in safe and stable hands?”

“Camelot _will_ be, no matter who I marry, or whether I marry. A man or woman capable of running his or her own home is more than capable of running a kingdom; all he or she needs is perspective and practice.” Arthur rose as Merlin climbed out of the tub, his reflexes kicking in the moment his master slipped on the stone, wrenching Merlin back to his feet and clutching him until he regained his balance. “Thank you. Anyway, my wedding day is a speck on the horizon. I won’t think about it until I have to. For now, can’t we just pretend I don’t have a massive weight on my shoulders? I’d like to be normal for once.”

“Even if you weren’t a prince,” Arthur answered between staccato bursts of laughter, “I doubt you’d be considered normal. You’re bizarre, but that doesn’t have to be a bad thing, Merlin.”

Merlin huffed and rolled his eyes.

Arthur bid him stay put with a stern glance and turned to fetch him fresh clothes: a deep purple tunic that made his pale skin glow, a pair of stockings and a pair of black trousers that complimented the tunic well. Merlin took the chance to empty the bathing tub and to dry the floor with a wave of his hand and a brief flare of gold. Looking down at the bundle in his grasp, Arthur waited until that wave of magic washed over pale limbs and dark hair, leaving his master dry from head to toe. He raised the bundle, his expression a mask of expectation when Merlin let the towel drop without hesitation. He hated that. How Merlin could be so comfortable in his bare skin when Arthur was standing right there, as though he wasn’t even worth the effort required to get dressed. And Arthur couldn’t help but wonder whether he would have been the same, just as eager to spend his time naked as he was to keep Camelot safe and secure.

The mere idea left him tight with discomfort – not to mention scarlet with embarrassment.

Arthur couldn’t imagine a world where he was so comfortable with being naked in front of someone, even someone as innocent and harmless as Merlin might have been in such a world. Just the idea of baring himself in front of Merlin made him feverish with something akin to panic. His throat constricted as pale limbs moved in and out of his direct line of sight as Merlin dressed less than a foot away, and Arthur retreated at once despite the confused and questioning frown Merlin aimed at him. His master followed him and pulled the folded tunic from his grasp, slipping the material over his shoulders with sinuous movements. Dressed now, a woman might have thought him handsome, but Arthur thought he looked like an idiot with that nest of tangles on his head.

“So, when do my riding lessons start?”


	5. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to have this chapter up yesterday, but real life got in the way.
> 
> Also, I wish I could listen to my iPod without imagining Merlin AUs for every song. My iPod was on shuffle last night and Walking In The Air started playing, and all I could think about was child!Arthur being a singer, because his dad made him, and just being really amazing, and stuff. Ugh. 
> 
> Anyway, feel free to let me know what you think of the new chapter.

His riding lessons started the next morning. Unfortunately, Arthur had to wait until after the pair of them broke their fast at the private dining table, twitching with impatience as he tapped the wood beside his cleared plate and ignored the amused glances Merlin kept aiming at him. Merlin just didn’t understand. He didn’t understand what this meant to him. Honestly, Merlin seemed to eat slower just to irritate him. But finally, _finally_ , Merlin followed him to the stables where two of the stable hands had Hengroen and Llamrei waiting, the two horses whinnying in response to Arthur’s boundless excitement. Arthur held his hand out for the nearest set of reins and waited until the stable hand passed them over at last when Merlin glared at the boy, his expression tightening with displeasure.

Arthur beamed in gratitude at Merlin and led Hengroen out of the stables, out into the open courtyard where a few of the Knights were mustering for an imminent patrol. Sir Tor waved at him from across the cobblestones. Arthur answered with a grin that stretched almost from ear to ear, his hand tightening around the leather in his grasp, his face flushing when Hengroen lipped at his hair. Affectionately, he stroked the prideful and majestic creature’s neck. He waited until Merlin emerged from the stables before attempting to mount the horse. His heart hammered as Merlin guided him through the process and soon enough he was astride the saddle. His inner thighs ached at the unfamiliar stretch; Arthur almost moaned. An explosion of nerves made him squeeze with his thighs when Hengroen pranced backwards in excitement and he looked at Merlin for guidance, only to find him staring up at him.

“Merlin?”

The man in question snapped out of his daze almost immediately, mounting up before Arthur could utter another word. He mounted Llamrei with the same fluid grace that emerged whenever Merlin spoke of magic, whenever he was flooded with confidence, and the sight almost made Arthur smile. He preferred seeing him like this than the way he’d been a day earlier: the vulnerable youth that seemed more like an innocent and grieving child with too much weight on his shoulders than a man. Merlin began his demonstrations as soon as he was in the saddle, his voice gentle and his expression encouraging, almost as though he were instructing a child rather than his own manservant. Arthur remained rapt throughout and squirreled the instructions away, memorising them in sequence. Just as he had when building a map of the castle inside his head.

“That sounds simple enough.”

“I said that too,” Merlin answered with a wry smile, “and I broke my collarbone when my mount threw me to the cobblestones. That was before Llamrei came along. Just humour me and take it slow for now, okay?”

Arthur conceded with a grumble, but shook the reins and squeezed with his heels, beaming when Hengroen obeyed the silent command at once. Hooves clapped against the cobblestones as Merlin and Llamrei followed suit.

The trot was slow, but it was greater than anything he could have imagined. It was marvellous to feel his muscles contracting and releasing in time with his mount’s every breath. It was glorious to feel Hengroen respond to his every touch. He wasn’t certain how anyone could live without this elegance, this fusion of man and prideful beast. Smiling, Arthur guided Hengroen through the lower town and beyond the first border, urging him into a smooth canter that earned a pleased hum from somewhere behind him. Arthur threw a satisfied smirk over his shoulder, wanting nothing more than to laugh in his face. He’d known it would be simple, had known it since Merlin began instructing him; there was just something in his blood that made riding come to him like a duck to water. Something about horses called to him.

Ten minutes passed before he grew tired of taking it slow.

Grinning, Arthur snapped the reins and kicked with his heels, quick and sharp, cheering when Hengroen bolted at once. Merlin cursed behind him. Hooves thundered against the earth and plumes of dust rose in their wake. Arthur whooped with delight as Merlin chased him through the trees, horses leaping over fallen trunks and heads ducking to avoid low branches, the thunder of hooves startling flocks of birds into flight overhead. The pair of them rode deeper and deeper, leaving the citadel further and further behind with each pound of hooves against the ground stretching out ahead of them. But the pace couldn’t keep forever, and at last Hengroen began slowing, breathing hard and heavy, and dark hide damp with sweat. Arthur stroked his neck in encouragement when Hengroen slowed to a stop, dismounting from the saddle with a pained groan before flopping on the grass beside a stream that attracted the two horses at once.

“You complete _arse_ , Arthur Pendragon. What happened to taking it slow? You’re lucky you weren’t thrown from the saddle, you stupid prat.”

Arthur succumbed to a burst of delighted laughter. He laughed until Merlin flopped down beside him. Awash with gratitude, Arthur turned his head to thank him for such an immense gift and faltered at the sight that met him. Merlin was too close for comfort. Windswept head propped up by wrist and elbow, Merlin gazed at him with an expression all too easy to recognise, though he’d never seen it directed at him before. It was soft and wondering, but underscored by something that made his chest tighten.

Something that looked a little broken.

“You should laugh more often. It suits you.”

Arthur looked away, his lungs constricting, his mind tripping over itself in mounting panic. He remained still and silent as Merlin continued to gaze at him. His spine ached with sudden tension. This wasn’t happening. It had to be a dream...or perhaps a nightmare, one where soft glances and faint smiles became the swing of an executioner’s axe and the roll of a head cleaved from its shoulders. His skin beaded with sweat when calloused fingertips grazed the scarred tissue running along his forearm. Arthur felt his lungs seize as a faint groan lodged there, suffocating out of existence before it could escape him and reveal how much the simple touch had affected him. He’d been touched before, of course, but it was never like this.

It was never slow and deliberate – as though he’d bolt as a startled animal might had the touch not been so calm and measured. Even so, Arthur squashed the shiver that threatened to run down his spine, whispering quick and sharp, “Stop.”

Merlin stopped as soon as that protest broke the silence, wrenching his fingers from his arm as though he’d been burned. Arthur scrambled up from the forest floor, uncaring of the grass stain on the back of his tunic or the twigs tangled in his hair. It wasn’t important. None of it mattered now. Nothing mattered except getting as far from Merlin as circumstances allowed. He made it to the horse in record time and clung to the tired beast in lieu of escaping, aware that pushing Hengroen too hard too soon wouldn’t be wise. Coming here was a mistake. He should never have accepted the position Merlin offered him in the first place, not when he’d known it would be dangerous, far too dangerous to get that close to a sorcerer under the watchful eye of King Bayard. This was a disaster, one he should have seen coming from the start.

Gwen was going to kill him for getting himself into such a mess – if she was even given the chance, considering how simple it would be to get caught. How simple it would be to let even one touch linger, to let one thing lead to another, until his head couldn’t tell which direction was up.

Arthur dragged in a ragged breath. He buried his face against the dark muzzle that huffed at him in tired encouragement. Hengroen was more than willing to lend a pointed ear to his troubles, but he wasn’t about to ramble in present company, not when his arm still tingled where his master had touched him. It took several moments to push down the panic, to revert to some measure of calm and not throw up his breakfast all over himself. It took even longer to muster the courage to glance over his shoulder, only to find Merlin sitting with his face in his hands. He was shaking. A pang of remorse rippled through Arthur as he remembered just how young Merlin was, remembered that Merlin was even younger than him. He knew he wasn’t being fair, knew that the laws in place affected more than just Arthur, but it was difficult to remember that whenever Merlin wore the royal crest on his person. Just as he was now, the miniature stone tower embroidered across the breast of the snug black doublet that made him seem twice as slender and trim. Sighing, Arthur made his way over, settling down beside him on the grass.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Arthur assured quietly, focusing his attention on a point in the distance, “but it can’t happen again. Not while we remain inside the borders. You might be flogged for your crimes, considering who you are and your heritage, but mine would earn an execution faster than either of us could blink. I won’t have that on your conscience.” Arthur gripped his own wrist and squeezed until the bones groaned under the pressure, more than aware of the distressed eyes fastened upon his face. Heat prickled his skin. He squeezed tighter, swallowing the moan of pain that rose in his throat. “Mistakes fuelled by adrenaline and youth aren’t worth such a price.”

Merlin jumped on the excuse provided in an instant. Arthur almost laughed at how simple it was, how quick Merlin was to follow his lead despite their social status. But he was relieved. This whole business could be brushed under a rug, forgotten about for the rest of his life without disastrous consequences. Unless some unforeseen circumstance pushed him to do so, Arthur would never let the matter emerge again: neither of them could afford to let that reckless and dangerous moment repeat itself in the future.

Arthur and Merlin mounted up as soon as the horses finished recuperating after their hard ride that morning. It was a slow ride back to the castle – one filled with uncomfortable silence and hesitant glances that Merlin ignored. Arthur ran his thumb over his scar, wondering when it would stop tingling, whether it ever would. It was stupid. A single touch shouldn’t have the power to make his nerves dance, not when the touch was so innocent compared to things he used to wonder about when he was younger, whenever he managed to find a moment of peace and solitude. Which wasn’t often. He’d never even found time enough to explore his own body, not like the others his age had. More than once, he’d overheard hushed discussions about the things a young man could do to make himself feel good and he’d flushed scarlet at the thought. Spending his days working, and his nights sharing a room with his brother and sister, prevented such explorations from ever happening. Now, with Merlin living on the other side of the door, such things were just as impossible.

Having returned to the castle, Arthur covered his scar back up, hiding it from view. A burst of bitterness curled his mouth. Not for the first time, Arthur thought about leaving the castle and heading across the distant border, but he knew King Bayard would just hunt him down and drag him back. It was better to suffer his presence in Camelot than let Arthur slip away, to let him become wiser, stronger and braver, and risk his position on the throne or his nephew’s position as next in line. It was a precaution against an uprising, Arthur knew, though a pointless one: no one was stupid enough to side with him against a sorcerer like Merlin and the union of two strong kingdoms.

Not that he would ever take a stand against his master, now or in the future. He just couldn’t imagine stabbing Merlin in the back like that. Merlin was one of the few people who treated him like a human being, and not a criminal or a stain upon the fabric of Camelot and Mercia. That wasn’t something to be ignored for the sake of a throne and a damned crown. He wasn’t certain he could even rule Camelot without making mistake after grievous mistake, endangering the lives and limbs of far too many people in the process. It wasn’t as though he’d been trained to dance around snakes in the grass at court or around dangerous blades in the training field. He wouldn’t know the first thing about running and protecting a kingdom. Perhaps it was for the best that Merlin would rule one day, as he was a gentle but firm man and wasn’t one to hesitate when it came to safety, especially the safety of those he felt responsible for. Camelot would surely flourish under his rule.

That thought provoking a faint smile, Arthur buried himself in his chores as Merlin settled in his favourite chair by the cold fireplace, his long frame sprawling, his chin supported by wrist and elbow. He watched Arthur perform his duties, blue gaze following the long, stroking motions as Arthur polished and oiled his longbow, caring for it as Merlin had shown him once Gaius had removed the splint from his arm – an allowance that must never be mentioned outside of Merlin’s rooms.

Arthur worked his way through chore after chore, though he glanced at Merlin from time to time. Merlin never seemed to tire of watching, never seemed to tire of murmuring advice whenever Arthur stumbled in his work. He wasn’t an expert: his knowledge of weapons and how to care for them stretched as far as his patient master allowed. He could remember the first time he’d needed to sharpen a blade all too well and that he’d almost choked on his tongue when Merlin settled on the floor behind him with a burst of soft laughter, hands coming around to grip his and murmuring, “You’re doing it _wrong_.” He’d been so startled that his brain stopped functioning, stopped telling him what to do, and he just sat there in silence as Merlin guided his hands. He’d just let the moment happen when he should have risen instead and forced some distance between them. That was one mistake he wouldn’t repeat in future, especially when such incidents just seemed to encourage Merlin and his dangerous behaviour.

“So, tell me about Her Highness.” Arthur’s hand paused in its descent along the long dagger, polishing cloth soft against his palm. He glanced at Merlin to find him frowning, his expression unimpressed with the subject matter. Arthur suppressed a grin of amusement at the sight. “What was she like when growing up?”

“Mithian teased me about my ears all the time, but she kicked Sir Maleagant in the groin for saying he’d make handles of them.” A pulse of indignant surprise rippled through Arthur, whose hand tightened around the dagger until a burst of pain made him drop the damned thing with a hissed curse. Crimson stained the cloth. Frowning, Merlin sat up and gripped his wrist before he could pull his hand away, pulling the cloth from his grasp to reveal the clean cut running across his palm. Magic flooded his gaze. Arthur remained still as his palm began knitting itself back together, the cut sealing without a trace, leaving only blood to hint at what happened a moment earlier. “Be careful. Anyway, why the sudden interest in Mithian?”

“Just don’t like silence,” Arthur mumbled as Merlin released his wrist at last. He ran his fingertips over the perfect skin covering his palm. A frown furrowed his brow and he looked up, expression troubled. “Silence gives me too much time to think. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”

“Perhaps you should try reading a book some time.” Something soft came over Merlin then. A small smile curled his mouth. “Reading distracts me. The world isn’t silent when I’m reading, Arthur; I’m too focused on that noise to think about whatever bothers me.”

Shrugging with uncertainty, Arthur rose from his own chair and fetched a fresh rag from the antechamber, returning after a few moments to find Merlin browsing through his private collection of tomes. He returned with one written in Greek – the letters were familiar, though Arthur couldn’t read them. Merlin smiled as he settled back into his chair, making himself comfortable. He read aloud as Arthur continued polishing, speaking with a soft voice, one that rose and fell in cadences that reminded Arthur of his childhood when Tom would soothe him after a nightmare. It made his chest ache. It made him long for the cramped room he shared with Gwen and Elyan and the unbearable heat of the forge.

Arthur visited them as often as he could manage, but even so, it felt like forever since he’d last seen them. Since he’d last spent time with them. He wasn’t fond of that feeling. He wasn’t fond of the small fear that lodged in his heart whenever he thought about his family, whenever he thought about them preferring his absence. His presence made their lives twice as difficult: any crime, no matter how minor, he committed would reflect upon them too. It would make them all suspicious in the eyes of the King, who watched them hard enough already, because there was a narrow line between forging blades and wielding them.

It was all the more reason to keep his distance from Merlin.

Looking down at the dagger, Arthur wondered what it might have been like to be raised in the castle as the son of a King, wondered whether he would have been as good and just as Merlin...or a man more like King Bayard: a monster with no qualms against ruling with an iron fist and the lash of a whip. He’d never met his own father, at least not when he was old enough to remember, but he’d heard the whispers spoken in the tavern. He’d heard men moaning their grief and rage over a tankard of mead as those men remembered their loved ones taken by Uther Pendragon for something as accidental as heritage. He’d witnessed broken families visiting crude graves home to nothing more than ash and heard them cursing him and his father, cursing the blood in his veins. Arthur and his reflection stared at one another as the memories crashed through him with crushing force.

The sense of calm that kept the stress at bay evaporated without a trace when Merlin finished reading, his soothing voice fading into silence with a contented sigh. Fumbling with the dagger, Arthur rose to his feet and sheathed the dangerous blade before vanishing into the antechamber without a word. His muscles ached with tension. He leaned back against the door, squeezing his eyes shut and wishing he’d never thought to ask Tom whether it had been true. Wishing he’d never thought to ask whether his father had murdered those innocent people just because his birth had robbed Camelot of her queen. Tom had hauled him close that evening, had embraced him tighten enough to make his eyes sting, and assured him that none of what happened was because of Arthur. That he wasn’t to blame for the crimes of another person – no matter who that person was. Yet that assurance still left him uncomfortable and unable to look the people who’d lost loved ones to his father’s pyre in the eye.

Arthur spent the rest of the day in the antechamber, remaining silent when Merlin knocked upon the door, asking whether he wanted supper. Later, when Merlin must have decided that Arthur had fallen asleep, he stripped himself bare and crawled into bed. He marvelled at the softness still. How the bedclothes caressed his skin. Arthur could have spent hours enjoying the sensation every evening, but his chores kept him occupied most of the time. Now, however, he luxuriated in the softness and buried his face in the pillow, wondering how much softer the bed of a king could be. It wasn’t a surprise that there were some chambermaids that jumped at the chance to bed a king, or even a prince, even if it meant ruining their own reputation. Arthur mellowed against the mattress and slowed his breathing, allowing the softness to coax him to sleep.


	6. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will be slower from now on.
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think!

He swallowed a yawn. Exhaustion threatened to make his eyes fall out of his skull as Arthur watched Merlin welcome Princess Mithian and King Rodor, his master almost bouncing with enthusiasm at the sight of them. Personally, Arthur would rather be asleep, but slumber was a dangerous place at the moment. Honestly, sleep had become something akin to torture: waking both damp with sweat and hot with fever, his manhood hard and aching, wasn’t how he wished to greet the morning. His dreams were too dangerous to be allowed. He just hoped he wasn’t one for moaning, that Merlin never heard him do so in his sleep, because that would have made the matter so much worse. Naturally, Arthur had avoided sleep as much as possible since.

It wasn’t wise to do so, of course. Lack of sleep made him stupid...but it seemed a lesser evil compared to allowing himself to luxuriate in his dreams as he would have luxuriated in the softness of his bed. It was better to doze standing up, to fumble with his chores, and make stupid mistakes than let himself remember those slow, deliberate touches that sent his heart racing, sent his blood pumping, or the deep, unhurried kisses that followed in his dreams. It was best not to remember the light weight pressing him down against the grass or the warm press of skin against his. Arthur rubbed his scarred forearm as Merlin almost toppled beneath the sudden and exuberant weight of Her Highness, who’d decided to throw decorum out the window and leap from the saddle. Merlin set her down on the cobblestones after spinning her around in a euphoric circle, his hands coming to grip her shoulders, an enormous grin on his face.

Sir Tor had neglected to mention just how beautiful the woman was. He’d never mentioned how dark locks swept back into a thick braid that descended down her back could make her seem twice as noble, or that the sharp intelligence that burned in those slanted eyes could scorch a man where he stood. Nor had he mentioned the softness of her mouth.

Arthur looked at King Rodor instead.

King Rodor was a wizened fellow with more regal bearing in his little finger than King Bayard had in his entire frame, whose face was warm and kind in comparison. Arthur understood then why Merlin favoured them. King Rodor greeted Merlin with a smile and a warm embrace before falling into step beside him as the three of them mounted the steps leading into the castle. Merlin beckoned to him with a simple gesture and Arthur followed at once; he kept a respectful distance as his master enquired after their long journey, stealing glances at Princess Mithian all the while. It was a strange shade of amusement that sparkled when Merlin glanced over his shoulder, and the sight irked him. It made him recall the dream he’d suffered through that morning, when the figment of his imagination had murmured teasing words against his bottom lip, smirking in smug triumph when Arthur flushed beneath him and gripped narrow hips tighter, a silent demand for more.

Arthur dropped his gaze at the recollection and stared down at the cold stone stretching on and on beneath him.

Bitter shame pooled inside him. Somehow, though he’d been the one to caution his master, it was Arthur that seemed unable to forget what happened between them a week earlier. Merlin had shattered something inside him and now hunger burned just beneath the surface. It waited to be released at the first sign of permission. It seared him whenever Merlin touched him now, no matter how innocent that touch might be, no matter where he and Merlin stood. And it was all because of one touch when adrenaline made a reckless fool of his benevolent master, whose respect and casual affection was more than Arthur deserved at times. It was more than he deserved when he wanted nothing more than to shove Merlin into the nearest alcove and pin him against the stone wall until that idiot understood just how much he wanted those calloused fingers elsewhere. How much he wanted those damned dreams to be true.

The distance between Arthur and the three royals ahead of him stretched as Arthur allowed himself to fall behind. It was better to fall behind and be reprimanded later than let Merlin come to an understanding, than let the heat of his desire make an appearance. He kept his head bowed as Merlin led Princess Mithian and her father to a pair of guest chambers a floor below his own. Her Highness disappeared inside. King Rodor, however, invited Merlin and Arthur inside his own guest chamber, his attention fastening upon the latter almost as soon as the door swung closed behind them.

“Have we met? Your face is very familiar.”

“You knew his mother,” Merlin answered as Arthur tensed at the unexpected question. It was more than a surprise to be recognised since most visitors to Camelot paid him little attention – Arthur supposed that was one of the benefits of being a common man instead of a noble. His heart thumped in his chest as he risked a glance at King Rodor, whose speculative frown became an expression of surprise at the explanation. “Ygraine Pendragon was a queen here some years ago.”

“And Estienne has him serving in the castle? Sometimes I can’t believe how callous that man can be,” snapped King Rodor, his surprise becoming indignation in an instant. The visiting monarch pivoted on his heel and settled upon a fine chair by the fireplace, the cushions soft and welcoming. Arthur suppressed a cringe as Merlin flinched at the accusing tone, the pair of them more than aware that King Bayard wasn’t to blame for his position in the household. “Arthur, come sit with me awhile.”

Uncertain and uncomfortable, Arthur crossed the room and hesitated for several moments before settling in the opposite chair, his shoulders aching with tension. He glanced at Merlin for advice. His master, however, was looking elsewhere, his narrow frame stiffer than he’d ever seen it. Arthur looked away, aware now that he was on his own with King Rodor, despite the continued presence of his master. But he needn’t have worried. The visiting monarch proved to be nothing like King Bayard even now, having chosen to make gentle enquiries instead of harsh demands designed to flood him with terror, which was a relief. King Rodor enquired about his family, about the common people that volunteered to give him a home when he most needed one. He almost seemed pleased to hear about Tom and the two children that became his siblings over the years.

“You know, you do look so much like your mother,” King Rodor announced sometime later, his hand wrapped around a goblet of wine that he’d prevented Arthur from pouring, having volunteered to do so himself when the wine was delivered at his request. “Ygraine had the same softness to her face that you do. Please drink up, Arthur; that wine won’t kill you.”

His face heating, Arthur looked down at the goblet in his grasp, wondering whether he was brave enough to take even a small sip, aware as he was that such an action would infuriate King Bayard. He looked askance at his master, who’d taken a seat beside him sometime during the gentle questioning from King Rodor, and waited for a nod of permission before allowing himself to sip at the wine. The flavour was intense – almost more intense than Arthur could handle, having never experienced such fine wine before, but he wasn’t willing to offend either nobleman in setting the goblet aside. He took another sip, muttering his gratitude into the dark wine.

“Sire, did you know my mother well?”

“I knew what she wanted me to know; politics is a vague game.” King Rodor offered a small smile. “Doesn’t the court physician speak of her? He and your parents were quite close.”

“I don’t have much chance to speak with him these days. One or both of us tend to be running errands at all hours.” Arthur glanced at Merlin. Relief pulsed through him when Merlin took no offence, offering an apologetic smile instead. Merlin sipped at his own wine, his smile broadening as Arthur returned his attention to the man opposite him. “I can’t help but wonder whether he even remembers her, you know, because it was so long ago. I’m sure he remembers my father better; the memories are a little fresher.”

“No one in Camelot could forget your mother, not even at Gaius’ ripe age. Uther Pendragon could never have ruled without Ygraine. She was pivotal in reclaiming Camelot from Vortigern – but I can see you’ve never heard of that treacherous snake.” King Rodor shook his head in disgust. He turned a scolding glance upon Merlin before returning his attention to Arthur, leaning forward in his chair, hand tightening around his goblet. His hazel eyes sparked with the fire of a much younger man. “Vortigern murdered Constans Pendragon and used the subtlest magic to implicate Uther, prompting his arrest and later escape with the help of his one remaining brother, Aurelius. Neither of them had been named Heir Apparent before Constans’ death – Uther had lived just fifteen summers, and his brother seventeen. No, it was Vortigern that Constans named as his successor, being a close cousin and much older, more experienced than either of Constans’ younger brothers. Your father and Aurelius fled the castle in the dead of night and escaped to the border, the Druids helping them evade the search parties sent after them – the Pendragons had a wonderful relationship with practitioners of magic until Ygraine passed away, bless her soul. Your father and uncle fled south to one of Camelot’s most longstanding allies, where your mother almost shot Uther in the face with a bolt from her crossbow,” said King Rodor, laughing as Arthur gaped in surprised disbelief. “Thinking him a stag, she’d fired before he’d cleared the bushes and only tripping over a root spared him. Your father waxed poetic about it for years afterwards.”

“Sire, I...find that hard to believe.” Arthur tilted his head to the side, nose crinkling. He sipped his wine before continuing, “I can’t imagine a man being pleased that a woman – even one such as my mother – almost shot him in the face. Bit embarrassing, don’t you think?”

Merlin snorted.

King Rodor chortled.

“Don’t let Mithian hear you say that. She’d kick your arse before you can blink.” Merlin took a large swallow of his wine, his disdain morphing into amusement. “I remember the tourney in Nemeth last year, when she pretended to be a man until she won and then everyone was horrified to discover she was a woman. Her response was, ‘would you prefer to have an inexperienced weakling in charge, or someone that can lead and fight better than you can?’ That shut them up soon enough and its true: I’d rather have a fierce and decisive woman lead me into battle than that parcel of swaggering fools. A man ought to be proud to have Mithian on the throne, whether to rule over him or beside him. Anyway, Rodor, you should tell him the rest – almost shooting Uther in the face isn’t even the best part.”

“Now, where would the fun in that be?” Hazel eyes fastened upon Arthur. King Rodor gave him a warm smile. “Uther wrote an account of the events that followed his escape from Camelot. I’m sure the librarian has his journals squirreled away somewhere. You should read them sometime.”

“With His Highness’ leave,” answered Arthur, his tone both diplomatic and hopeful before taking a long swallow of his wine, his face warming.

Maybe the wine wasn’t so terrible, after all.

Arthur smiled and took another, and soon drained the goblet. He glanced at the flagon of wine, hoping for more, but wasn’t surprised when Merlin excused himself and rose, encouraging him to follow with the gentle press of a hand on his shoulder. His fingertips tingled by the time Merlin and Arthur reached the royal chambers, the former leading the latter with a hand wrapped around his elbow in a secure grip. Merlin led him into the antechamber, cursing whenever something made Arthur trip, sighing whenever Arthur gave in to yet another bout of chuckles. His master ordered him to take a nap. Arthur wasn’t certain why he needed to, really; he felt better than ever. And Merlin...Merlin was wearing that stupid smile, the one that softened all the stupid angles on his face, the one that made Arthur want to be so much better, braver, smarter, and stronger. It made him want to impress the Prince of Camelot and Mercia.

“Take a nap,” Merlin insisted as he poked him in the chest and kept doing so, until the back of his knees hit the edge of the bed and Arthur flopped down on the mattress with a sigh and an uncoordinated wriggle, struggling to get comfortable as Merlin reached for his boots. Fond amusement rolled off his master in thick waves as Arthur, humming, smiled as he rubbed the spot he’d poked a moment ago. Merlin unlaced his boots and pulled them off in quick succession before wrestling with the blankets, grunting as he tried to heave them out from under Arthur, the man in question resisting every tug. “Arthur, stop fighting me, you stupid – Ugh. Would you just –” That was when Merlin gave up, rolling his eyes. “Never mind. Just take a damned nap. Later, when you aren’t as tired and merry, you can attend me before the welcome feast. You’d just embarrass me otherwise.”

Arthur watched him go, his wine-warmed stomach flipping and flopping, and tying itself into knots. His fingertips strayed to the mattress by his leg, where Merlin had rested his knee during his battle to liberate the blankets from beneath Arthur, and Arthur sighed at the warmth lingering there. He remembered the momentary press of narrow hips when his struggles caused Merlin to overbalance, his hand splayed alongside blond hair, sparing them both from a sore nose; remembered the bob of an apple as Merlin swallowed above him before returning to battle. His eyes drifted closed at the recollection. Arthur squirmed and turned over, his blankets doing their best to prevent him from crawling towards his pillow, where he buried his face and melted into the mattress, his limbs going limp, his own stupid smile disappearing into the pillow.

He wasn’t certain what woke him later – whether it was the dull throb repeating behind his eyes or the discomfort of his trousers clinging to the limp, aching member that he must have rubbed raw against the bedclothes in his sleep. But he supposed it didn’t matter; neither situation was pleasant. Groaning, and grumbling, and cursing, Arthur stumbled out of bed and fumbled with his laces, his fingers tangling, clumsy, as he remembered the stumbling fool he’d made of himself earlier. All because of one goblet of wine and lack of some damned sleep. Arthur grimaced as he stripped completely, taking in the sight of his seed after it had crusted over, wondering how anyone could think getting into such a state could be a good idea – no matter what he’d heard about pleasure, whether it was aimed at oneself or someone else. He couldn’t remember dreaming, but he knew what must have caused him to be in such a state, the thought sitting sour, shameful and unspoken inside him.

It must have been written all over his face when Merlin was with him.

Swallowing back the sudden sob that rose, Arthur squashed the emotions surging through him and crossed the antechamber, seeking the ewer of water and goblet waiting for him on the table. He knew Merlin must have sent for them while he’d slept. The first splash of cold water on his tongue was a relief and the next few much the same. The slap of cold against his groin and thighs, however, were a shock to the system. Frostbitten lightning raced through his body, eliciting a shiver, raising goose flesh and earning a sharp gasp. Arthur steadied himself against the table. He made a mess of his bottom lip, his breaths coming out sharp and fast through his nose as he splashed himself again and ran his free hand over his skin. Just to be sure he’d gotten everything. He dried himself with a clean rag, his ministrations slow and tender, careful not to rub himself even rawer.

Arthur had just finished when the sound of approaching footsteps made him scramble for his abandoned tunic, managing to raise the damn thing a moment before the barest knock preceded the arrival of Merlin less than an instant later, armed with a bundle of his own clothes and an exasperated expression.

“You’re meant to wait for permission before entering,” Arthur managed to snap, ignoring the way his voice cracked as Merlin froze in the doorway, exasperation evaporating in an instant. Face flaming, Arthur couldn’t help but wonder whether this was how maidens felt when their virtue was endangered. “I hope you don’t barge into Her Highness’ chambers like this!”

Merlin averted his gaze, mumbling something incomprehensible, but Arthur wasn’t in the mood for translating nonsensical murmurs. Crossing the antechamber, Arthur seized his master by the lapel of his coat and shoved him out the door, slamming it in his face before either of them could utter another word. His headache flared as the old wood vibrated with the force; Arthur groaned. Reaching for the table, Arthur steadied himself once more, one hand still clutching his tunic to the base of his neck. He should have known something like this would happen sooner or later, but he’d never expected something quite so galling, so enraging, or so...painful. He’d never thought anyone would see him nude – or almost nude – and that it was Merlin who saw him so terrified him.

While bedding men wasn’t a crime, engaging a sorcerer in congress was forbidden for Arthur. Everyone knew certain spells could allow a practitioner to change their sex or even the sex of someone else; King Bayard wasn’t taking any chances when it came to the law and Arthur, and the limited future allowed to him.

The anger from his youth flared alongside his headache, but Arthur shoved it back down. Giving in to anger never helped anyone.

It took several moments to regain a calm facade, but he wasted little time afterwards and hastened to dress in his finest clothes; a set Merlin had given his stamp of approval for when Arthur showed him the drawing, after he’d visited his sister and she’d ordered him to do so, worried as she was that Arthur might look a fool in the banquet hall. The set consisted of a vibrant red tunic, a black overcoat with silver embroidery, and a pair of trousers that almost shined with newness. The boots he’d polished the night before completed the ensemble.

Dressed and ready, Arthur left the antechamber and attended his master, ignoring the silent stares aimed at him as he laced trousers, pulled on the overcoat and tunic, and swirled the fine blue cloak around narrow shoulders. Arthur ran his fingers over every stretch of fabric, smoothing them out until not a single crease remained. He was fastidious about every detail. His failure to dress the Prince of Camelot and Mercia wouldn’t earn him any points with His Majesty, whose eye for detail was unmatchable. Next was the silver coronet that glowed against the dark strands of Merlin’s hair. Arthur spent a minute or so fiddling with the damned thing; the coronet refused to sit straight. Merlin seemed to grow more amused with each second that passed and Arthur grew more annoyed.

“Arthur, don’t worry about it –”

“No,” Arthur snapped. “You don’t understand. It has to be perfect.”

“No, it doesn’t. It really doesn’t. None of my menservants have ever managed to get that stupid thing to sit straight. Not a single one. No one will care.”

“The King will care!”

“No one whose opinion about my coronet matters to me,” Merlin amended gently, snaring him by the wrists and dragging his hands away, refusing to let go even when Arthur tugged against his grip. “I haven’t cared about what people think of my appearance in years, Arthur, and this evening is no different. I won’t let him punish you for this. Just trust me. Please.”

Arthur met his gaze for the barest moment and looked away, the tension in his frame ebbing, his lungs releasing the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. His skin tingled where Merlin touched him still. Swallowing, Arthur acquiesced in a whisper, and bolted as soon as Merlin let him go, heading for the door as his master sighed behind him. Merlin followed after him and the pair of them descended through the castle, unable or perhaps unwilling to break the silence that fell between them as blessed solitude was left behind and the emptiness of court was embraced. Arthur slipped inside the banquet hall to murmur to the man by the door, stepping away a moment later as Merlin was announced and slipping into his wake as Merlin strode through the double doors, his back straight with the same grace and confidence associated with his powerful magic.

No one could underestimate Merlin Bayard when he was like this. The thought pleased Arthur, who attempted to be as unobtrusive as possible, keeping his head bowed as he eyed every person in the banquet hall.

One couldn’t be too careful.

The banquet hall was large and filled with people, some of whom were already a little merry, from having supped from their personal stores; the perks of being a nobleman. The noblewomen almost gleamed as they moved here and there, gossiping and laughing, eyeing the various men in chainmail. Wreaths and tapestries decorated the walls. It was a warm and welcoming atmosphere, but it made Arthur feel strange, disconnected and distant – as though he were looking through a window, eager to get inside, but uncertain how. His master, however, seemed to bloom when surrounded by these people, his natural talkative manner coming to the fore, allowing him to immerse himself in conversation in every corner of the room. Arthur listened to and watched him do so, watched him charm his way into the good books of every man and woman he came across, and yet never allowing the same in return. Merlin wasn’t a fool. Blind trust would just get him killed.

Arthur wasn’t certain he liked feasts. Too many opportunities passed where even the smallest blade could press into vulnerable flesh and bring everything crashing down around their ears.

He watched Merlin like a hawk.

People started drifting towards their seats soon enough and Arthur followed Merlin to the high table, pulling out his chair, suppressing a grin when Merlin made a face at him. He retreated a few steps until his back touched the wall and allowed his gaze to travel through the banquet hall.

Elyan was on duty, standing guard with a few other guardsmen dotted around the room. He stood solemn and serious, his gaze roaming, but his stern expression almost cracked when he and Arthur locked eyes. Arthur smiled at him in lieu of waving, and looked away, his gaze travelling towards the Knights seated along one side of the room. Sir Tor was among them. Just seeing him there helped Arthur breathe easier, knowing he wouldn’t be the only one looking out for Merlin as the night wore on. Sir Tor was seated nearest the high table – close enough to intervene should anything go wrong, but his attention was directed towards his group of comrades at present. He’d just told a humorous anecdote that made the men around him roar with laughter.

Some minutes later, the King and his esteemed guests arrived with much fanfare, people rising, waiting for leave to sit once more. Arthur gripped his own wrist at the sight of him and squeezed until it ached something fierce. It seemed a better alternative to bolting, making an outrageous scene, and embarrassing Merlin with his cowardice. He kept his head down as King Bayard approached and drew Merlin into an embrace, clapping his shoulder, showcasing his immense affection and pride for the entire room to see. His throat ached in remembered pain as Arthur resisted the urge to cover bruises that had faded since the last time he’d been so close to the King.

The air around him soured as King Bayard greeted his people, bestowing a magnanimous smile, welcoming them and thanking them for their continued faith and support in his ongoing pursuit of peace with the neighbouring lands. Then he welcomed the guests. His accented voice was like poison without scent or taste, hidden in the splendour and grandeur of the feast and endangering the unwitting, the unprepared.

King Bayard was a snake in the grass.

Seated in the middle of the high table, King Bayard was the immediate focus of the feast. Merlin sat to his right and King Rodor on the other side, seated next to Her Highness, Princess Mithian – a vision in deep blue and grey, her cascade of waves swept away from her face, pinned in place with a diamond aigrette adorned with a swan feather. Arthur had heard of such hairpieces, but he’d never seen one until now, and he found himself wondering how she’d acquired it. But the how and why weren’t important in the scheme of things. Not when even more people came flooding through the double doors, bearing trays laden with platters of food and flagons of wine, bowing before setting them down – the finest dishes meant for the high table.

The feast smelled incredible.

“You know, your father would be proud to see the man you’ve become,” said King Bayard as Arthur stepped forward to pour Merlin some wine, keeping his expression neutral as Merlin smiled up at him in blatant gratitude. “I wish he was here.”

“I suppose I do as well.” Merlin smothered a slice of bread in butter and took a bite, chewing carefully, his forehead furrowed in concentration. It made him look almost confused. “Hard to miss someone you never knew, though. Anyway, if he were here, we wouldn’t be. I’d still be in some small village in the middle of nowhere, and you’d have far less power. Arthur, make sure you eat something later,” Merlin added as Arthur stepped away, “and if the other servants give you any trouble, tell them I want a word at once. Is that clear?”

“Yes, of course, Sire.”

Arthur inclined his head and continued retreating, his hands cradling the flagon of wine. His expression remained neutral despite the searching glance from King Bayard. He flicked his attention around the banquet hall again. Just to be sure. Arthur found Sir Tor doing the same, his sharp eyes roaming, and his scarred face taut as he ate. The smile Arthur had grown familiar with since gaining his position in the household made an appearance when Sir Tor looked his way; Arthur looked down at the flagon in his hands. He felt wrong-footed whenever that smile made an appearance. It annoyed him more than he could express, but he wasn’t going to let such a thing ruin the evening.

It was a relief when the minstrels started performing as the meal drew to a close, the bard singing a quiet tale that made the room perk up, and ears turn towards her voice.

Given leave, Arthur drifted away from the high table, finding himself closer to his brother and the almost unnoticed table set aside for the servants attending their masters and mistresses. He picked up a small plate and sampled everything, before sidling up to Elyan.

“You look bored.”

“I _am_ bored.”

“Pity,” said Arthur, chuckling, before munching on a cold cut of succulent pig. He watched the noblemen and women ambling, stretching their legs after so much time spent sitting, watched Merlin mingle with his men and say something that made Sir Tor almost explode with laughter. “You should have considered being a servant instead. Pouring wine all evening is so much more exciting than standing around and looking menacing.”

“You know, I’m trying to work here. How can I focus on my duty, Arthur, when you’re doing your best to distract me?” Elyan looked at him sideways. “Why aren’t you socialising?”

“I’m socialising with you right now!”

“You know what I meant! Have you even tried to make friends yet?”

“Making friends is a bit hard when everyone hates you.”

“Not everyone hates you. Sir Tor doesn’t hate you,” Elyan said pointedly, rolling his eyes when Arthur just popped a grape into his mouth. “He’s looking at you right now. Why not go over and say hello?”

“I...can’t do that.” Arthur frowned down at his plate, contemplating the various morsels there, and wondering which he’d eat next. “Firstly, I don’t know him that well. Secondly, his comrades are with him. I’m not risking a confrontation. Thirdly, His Highness would just laugh when I make a fool of myself and I’m not some jester hired for his entertainment!”

“Funny, because I seem to remember you had an obsession with juggling when you were little.”

Arthur stuffed his mouth with bread and glared across the room.

Elyan sighed beside him.

Silence settled between them and stretched for several minutes before Elyan broke it once more, saying, “So....His Highness or Sir Tor?”

“What?” Arthur almost choked as he forced a chunk of bread down his throat whole. His face heating, he rounded on his brother, both amazed and horrified at his nerve. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“Just wondering which one you’d choose, because I know the maids almost burst into flames when the rumour that Sir Tor is sweet on you started. You should get your hands on him before some noblewoman snatches him up like a plum tart.”

“I’m not listening to this.”

Tempted to throw his plate in a fit of anger, Arthur managed to refrain from doing so – if only because he didn’t want to waste the food that remained or humiliate Merlin in the process. Instead he strode away, his back rigid and tense, his hands clutching the plate like a lifeline. He secluded himself in the far corner, his mind playing the question over and over.

How dare he?

What if someone had overheard their conversation?

What if that person had been the King!

Arthur might have stopped breathing then and there, but for the hand that seized his arm in a frantic grasp, his attention snapping sideways to find a woman in distress garbed in the cool green of Nemeth – just the same as the rest of their retinue of servants wore. The brightest blue eyes he’d ever seen swam with panic; his heart started hammering, responding to the shine of tears that swelled. A few haphazard strands of brown hair escaped her long braid.

“Please,” she whispered raggedly, her pale face grew yet paler as she spoke, her grip tightening, “you must help me!”

“Of course,” Arthur assured her, voice soothing as it would be when gentling the charger Merlin let him ride. His hand found her arm in return and squeezed as her frightened expression began crumpling, her hand quivering as she covered her mouth for a moment. A few tears slipped free of her dark lashes. “What happened? Has someone harmed you?”

“No,” the woman croaked in fear, shaking her head in a dizzying manner. She looked around the banquet hall once and stepped closer, her voice growing more urgent by the moment. “I heard him talking, whispering with his squire, but I don’t know who to turn to! The word of a servant means nothing against his!”

“Against whose word? What did you hear?”

“Sir Maleagant! He means to poison the Prince!”

“Which one is he?” Arthur demanded of her, his tone hardening, his lungs seizing in his chest. He’d heard that name before. He’d heard tell of his despicable character before. He was running the moment she pointed her finger, running towards his master, who was at that moment accepting a goblet from the Knight in question. “Merlin! Stop!”

“What are you doing?”

Merlin wore a strained smile as the banquet hall plunged into silence, the sudden noiselessness louder than words could ever be. People stared as Arthur stumbled to a stop, eyes wild and face flushing, hand wrenching the goblet away without hesitation.

But Arthur didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, not when his word meant so little when weighed against a Knight of Nemeth. He did the one thing he could do:

He drank.


	7. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Pre-Chapter Notes:
> 
> 1) Ares, or Ars, or Aries, is an Arthurian Figure, though a minor one (like, really minor). I decided to have fun with him and bring him out a little.
> 
> 2) Dindrane and Aglovale are both Arthurian Figures.
> 
> 3) I don't know how accurate it is, but according to wikipedia, Soredamor was the daughter of Morgause. In this universe, she isn't her daughter, but is still kin.
> 
> 4) Lord Robert is an original character. 
> 
> 5) I'm going to do my best to post a chapter per week, but this may change in coming months, as I'll be starting my first year of college/university in September. (I'm gonna die from exposure to academia, omg.)
> 
> 6) As always, feel free to let me know what you think!

The darkness wasn’t absolute: it was broken by a faint red glow, the crackling of a fire pulling him back to the surface, sharpening his senses. Arthur moaned when a calloused hand touched his hair, sweeping it away from his forehead. Their touch felt like molten iron against the raw ice of his skin. Weary, Arthur reached for that hand and pressed closer, dragging the calloused palm down to his cheek and pinning it there, his mouth curling in a smile when a soft chuckle reached his ear. It took a moment for the rest of him to wake up, for his eyes to flutter open and his apple to bob, throat attempting to swallow nonexistent saliva. His smiled faltered the barest fraction when he realised the person tending to him was Sir Tor, before returning to full strength at the soft regard not even concealed behind his grievous scars. His sluggish heart attempted to race.

“How are you feeling?”

“Thirsty,” Arthur croaked as a calloused thumb stroked across the ridge of his cheek with gentle abandon. His attention flicked around to see familiar blue drapes. He was in the royal bed he dressed every morning. His master, however, was nowhere to be seen. But he had no time to spare on thinking, not when Sir Tor shifted to slip an arm around his middle and help him sit up, providing support where the pillows couldn’t. The hand once pressed against his face now reached for the goblet waiting on the bedside locker, bringing it close, allowing him to take a few slow swallows before setting it aside. Arthur mumbled his gratitude, but the soft mouth that found his a moment later took him by surprise, snaring him in a kiss that made someone groan. It took a moment to realise that someone was Arthur as a large hand cradled his face all over again.

Weary and disbelieving, but so eager, Arthur gave chase when Sir Tor started to withdraw, a noise of protest rising on his tongue when the man remained adamant. The pillows were behind him an instant later; supporting him as Sir Tor continued to withdraw, increasing the distance between them as he moved to sit in a chair from the fireside, it having been placed alongside the bed. Not close enough. Arthur watched him go, wondering whether it was normal to feel as though he were floating, whether the antidote to the poison had contained some narcotic. His mouth still tingled where he’d been kissed. His stomach knotted. His tired lungs drew an aching breathe before Arthur broke the silence, croaking, “Why isn’t His Highness here? Where is he?”

“His Highness is spending the next month in the dungeon.”

“Since when?”

“Since yesterday, when he returned from retrieving the antidote to the poison you drank. He disobeyed a command for you.” Anger coloured his voice. It hardened his face, making the scars across it seem twice as vivid and alarming, twice as much of a warning not to mess with Sir Tor. He sat forward in the chair, his hands gripping the rests hard enough to make the fine wood groan. “What were you thinking, you fool? There might’ve been no cure! Have you any idea how fortunate you are?”

Arthur looked down at his lap, at the faint tremor in his hands. His body wanted nothing more than to sleep, but sleep was the farthest thought from his mind. The seconds trickled past as he avoided speaking, and he could feel Sir Tor growing more irate, could feel the tension in the bedchamber thickening until it was ready to snap. That was when Sir Tor sighed and made the decision to let his anger go, drawing one of Arthur’s hands between both of his, murmuring, “Arthur, His Highness was almost too late. You almost died. Why didn’t you come to one of us?”

“What was the point?” Arthur pulled his hand free. His throat clicked as he swallowed again. “No one would have believed me, except for my brother, but his word weighs only a fraction more than mine; his word wouldn’t have stood a chance against the word of a Knight.”

“Arthur –”

“No, don’t even try to deny it.” Arthur glared at him. “Just because you’re more progressive than your comrades, it doesn’t mean us commoners would have been listened to, and Merlin would have drank that poison had I wasted time seeking a private word with you. I did what I thought was right at the time. I don’t regret it.”

“Of course, you wouldn’t.” Sir Tor seemed immune to his glare. He watched Arthur with an earnestness that threatened to make him squirm. He sighed once more. “His Highness will be pleased to know you’ve made a recovery, as will your family, no doubt. The lot of them have Gaius pestered for news.”

“Where are –”

“The King won’t let them see you. Your brother has been suspended from duty, until further notice. Otherwise, he’d have been in here morning, noon and night.”

“The King thinks me culpable.” Arthur looked away, emotions turbulent inside him. The words he’d voiced felt like sharpened steel on his tongue. A bitter smile crawled across his face. “That I planned this. That I came up with some convoluted scheme, just to ingratiate myself with him or something of the like.”

“I’m afraid so. He has never been rational when it comes to you.” Sir Tor glanced at the door, and then at Arthur, who’d turned his head to look at him again. It was nice to have someone in his corner, someone who believed him undeserving of the hatred directed towards him so often. Sir Tor rose to his feet. His hauberk gleamed in the firelight. “I must leave you now, Arthur; the King wanted to be informed the moment you woke up. Just don’t let him intimidate you when he comes. We both know you’re innocent.”

Time trickled past like the slow ebb of a wide river.

The wait was unbearable.

It was almost a relief to hear the explosion of anger from the other end of the corridor, one voice snarling, and the other reproaching, both voices fast approaching. It wasn’t a surprise when the door slammed open and bounced off the wall an instant before King Bayard burst into the royal chamber, followed at once by Councillor Ares, whose angelic countenance was at odds with his ferociousness on the battlefield and the sharpness of his mind when envisioning strategies.

Arthur said nothing, his hands fisting the coverlet to conceal their shaking, and the remaining moisture in his mouth evaporating. The door swung closed behind Councillor Ares, who cast a concerned glance between King Bayard and Arthur, his cherubic cheeks flushed with vigour. The soft wrinkles at the corners of his mouth and eyes betrayed his age. His delicate hand dared to reach out and stay the King, when the enraged monarch reached for the sword at his hip, not backing down for even a moment when King Bayard looked at him. The pair of them stared at one another long and hard before King Bayard ground his teeth and unclenched his hand from the hilt of his blade.

“How did you know the chalice was poisoned?” It was Councillor Ares that spoke, his voice firm but gentle, his dark eyes warm and sharp, like mulled wine in winter. King Bayard stiffened at his side, more than ready to accuse, but the man continued his gentle interrogation regardless. “Were you made aware of the conspirator before the banquet?”

“No, I wasn’t made aware before the banquet. Had I known about the poison sooner, I would have brought my concerns to His Highness, milord.” Arthur pushed the words out despite the lump now taking residence in his throat. He made sure to keep his temper, his growing fear, under lock and key. “I was made aware after the feast. A maid under King Rodor’s command came to me, claiming she’d overheard Sir Maleagant and his squire conspiring –”

“How like your father you are,” King Bayard spat as his fingers tightened around the hilt of his blade once more, his expression comprised of derisive fire, “so quick to cast blame elsewhere.”

Arthur suppressed the flinch and shouts the comparison inspired. It wouldn’t do to shout at the King, or even the kinder councillor at his side, both of whom held the thread of his life in their hands.

“I don’t think anyone could stoop to that level – not even his son.” Councillor Ares cast a chiding glance at the King. He tossed his long, thick and intricate braid over his shoulder, the flaxen locks streaked with snow white. He stepped forward and settled on the edge of the bed. His hand came to rest on Arthur’s wrist. Strangely, Arthur felt soothed at the gentle touch despite the flecks of gold bursting into existence in Councillor Ares’ dark gaze. “Now, Arthur, you said a maid warned you? Can you point her out to me?”

A whispered incantation and a flare of gold brought several images into being, forged from the unseen vapours of their breath as it hardened into a white mist in front of them. It was as though Arthur was peering through a frosted window, looking in at several women – all of whom looked familiar, but none of whom was the woman that came to him at the banquet. Even so, he gave each of them his unbroken attention in turn. Just to be sure.

“She isn’t among these women.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes, milord.”

Councillor Ares said nothing for a moment or so, his gaze intense as he stared at Arthur, before nodding in acceptance.

“Can you trust me now, as I have chosen to trust you?”

Arthur wanted to say no. Instead he nodded slowly, swallowing as Councillor Ares moved his hand from wrist to face, his gentle fingertips pressing against his temple. Golden eyes pierced blue.

“I need you to concentrate,” said Councillor Ares. His voice was little more than a whisper, as though speaking louder might disrupt the magic swelling between them. “Focus on the woman you saw, and let her face come to the fore. Let me see her.”

The man wrenched himself away a moment later, leaping away from Arthur, his face slack with surprise and no small amount of fear. Sweat beaded on his pale skin. The various items spread throughout the chamber vibrated in response to his fear, even the bed on which Arthur lay, the blankets of which Arthur gripped even tighter when Councillor Ares breathed a name: Nimueh.

“You can’t be serious,” answered King Bayard. It seemed even he had forgotten his anger at the utterance of her name. He stood pale and shaken. His beard became shadow against the stark white of his skin. “What has Merlin ever done to earn her hatred?”

“She wasn’t after Merlin.” Councillor Ares wrapped his arms around his middle and paced the stone floor, his shoulders tense. His fearful expression turned to one of calculation. At once the items around the chamber ceased their vibrations. Several moments passed before he turned and stared at Arthur, who struggled to remain calm as thoughts of the infamous witch bounced around his head. He’d heard of her; none could live in Camelot and never hear tell of her, the witch that sparked the purge of magic from the realm so many years ago, when Arthur had been the infant son of an enraged and grieving monarch. Councillor Ares’ eyes sparked. “Clearly, the man she aimed to kill was Arthur; why else would she have warned him about the chalice? I just can’t fathom why. Why, after all this time, target a peasant with no power, no influence, nothing worth noting,” Councillor Ares pondered aloud. “I’ve always loved a puzzle.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I must contact the priestesses; Soredamor must have some idea why Nimueh has re-emerged after more than two decades of silence. It won’t hurt to speak with Iseldir either. He may know something of her intentions. With your leave, Your Majesty, I’ll begin at once.”

“Are you sure we can trust her? Her uncle was Gorlois Le Fay!”

“Her aunt was a Whitehall burned at the stake.” Councillor Ares’ expression hardened as he looked from Arthur to King Bayard. “She owes no allegiance to the name Pendragon.”

“Then do what you must.” King Bayard waved a dismissive hand and Councillor Ares bowed his head respectfully, hastening from the chamber in a flurry of violet robes. It left the two remaining men alone together, the one contemplative and the other anxious, waiting for steel to be drawn now that the man keeping him alive was absent. Arthur watched the King turn to face him in silence, searching eyes fastening upon Arthur. “I should have drowned you years ago, when I found you sniffling inside the wardrobe, where your papa left you. Your premature death would have spared me more than a few wrinkles. You’re fortunate your father and I are so different.”

_Uther Pendragon wasn’t my father_ , Arthur wanted to say, but the words caught in his throat. His tongue denied them access to his mouth. He looked down at the coverlet. There was nothing to stop King Bayard from acting, from withdrawing his blade and cleaving his head from his shoulders where he sat. He wouldn’t move to avoid such a blow; there wasn’t a point in doing so. Not when another blow would come in the next instant and the next until Arthur slipped up, until he made some mistake that would bare his neck to sharpened steel.

“I’m not going to kill you now, Arthur, much as I might like to watch the blood stain your tunic.” The quiet assurance was like a dagger thrust between the ribs: it punched the air from his tired lungs. Arthur looked up, only to see King Bayard switching his attention between him and the coverlet draped across his fatigued frame. “But I’ll be watching. You’d best hope I don’t find reason to snuff your existence.”

Then King Bayard was gone.

Arthur dragged in an aching breath and forced himself to move, forced himself out from beneath the sprawl of luxurious bedding, his hand gripping the bedpost for balance as the world spun around him. Sweat stained the bedclothes. It made his tunic and trousers smell ripe. Curiously, he wondered how Sir Tor could have stood to be near him in such a state, how he could have bared to gather him close, kiss him the way he had. He raised a shaking hand and touched his mouth. Perhaps he’d dreamed the whole thing. Choking back a pained noise, Arthur made it to the antechamber somehow, using every available surface along the way as a prop, his weary limbs more than ready to collapse beneath his growing weight. His stomach growled low and vicious like a wolf at the height of winter, starved almost to the point of madness, but he couldn’t think about that.

There were more important things.

Determination kept him standing, kept his hands moving as he peeled his clothes away and dumped them on the floor, as he washed himself with stale but serviceable water left from before the banquet. There was nothing to be done for his hair; the natural oils released from his scalp were survivable. He dressed himself as well as he could manage and vacated the antechamber and then locked the royal chamber, his mouth parched and his limbs weakened. Arthur took the passages he knew would be less travelled and almost escaped unnoticed before he bumped into Sir Tor on the steps leading into the castle, his heart jumping into his throat at the look of panic that crossed his scarred features.

“Arthur, what on earth are you doing out of bed?!”

“I want to go home.”

Arthur looked away, his face paling as the steps swayed beneath his boots. His ears rang. He wasn’t surprised when Sir Tor slipped an arm around his waist and steadied him. His hand was like a brand over his blue tunic. But he _was_ a little surprised when Sir Tor started walking, keeping his pace slow, allowing Arthur to lean on him as he descended the steps.

Sir Tor walked him home and reached for the door at his wave, pushing it open to reveal three alarmed people rising from the table. A moment later those three people exclaimed in shock and joy, his name the one constant as the distance them and Arthur closed.

Sir Tor slipped away, shutting the door, allowing them their privacy.

Gwen was the first to reach Arthur and the sight of her relieved tears encouraged his own turbulent emotions to rise to the surface. Arthur crumpled into her embrace, his knees giving way, his fall slowed by the two other sets of arms that reached for him. His frame vibrated with each sob as the four of them sank to the floor. Gwen pressed a kiss against his head. Tom murmured soothing words while Elyan ran a comforting hand over the stretch of back he could reach. Arthur melted into each show of affection. Now, wrapped up in their embrace, Arthur realised how starved of love he’d been at the castle, how cut off he’d been from those that cared for him. Safe and secure, he wept until the world started spinning, pitching him headfast into darkness.

The next time he came to, it was late evening and he’d been moved into the other room. He’d been placed on the bed he used to share with his brother, and Gwen sat on the floor, dozing with her head resting against his side. She jolted awake when Arthur shifted with a groan.

“Arthur,” Gwen exclaimed warmly, her concerned expression melting into one of relief. She threw her arm across his middle in a tight hug, pressing her face against his sternum. Arthur rested his hand on her hair, letting the familiar softness coax a faint smile from him. “Are you hungry? Gaius said broth would do you good.”

“Really? Because I’d kill for some mutton.”

“Tough.”

Gwen released him and rose to her feet. She helped him sit up, grunting with the effort of doing so, but soon he was on his feet. Gwen escorted him to the main room and urged him into a seat at the table, her hand soothing over his hair before she hastened to the pot steaming over the embers of a dying fire. She ladled some broth into a bowl and brought it to Arthur, who selected one of the spoons sitting on the old and worn table marred with scratches and gouges caused in their youth. Gwen fussed over him as Arthur dined slowly, his hand shaking with weariness every once in a while, but he managed. He persevered with his usual determination and stubbornness. When he couldn’t eat anymore, Arthur let himself sag back against her, supported by her love as Gwen hugged him again.

Growing up, she’d hugged him the most. She was the most eager to wrap him in her love, with Tom a close second. His brother had been more distant in comparison. That wasn’t to say Elyan never showed his love, of course, but he’d done so in a much more subtle manner: teaching him to swim; to punch without breaking his thumb like a fool; to know the differences between edible berries and poisonous ones. He’d spared his embraces for when Arthur needed those most: when others made him feel worthless and burdensome and even unwanted. Of course, those embraces would only come after his brother had punched and kicked at the others until they bolted in fear, bruised and bloodied in the aftermath of his protective anger.

Arthur hummed when Gwen started playing with his hair, her fingertips grazing his scalp, just as she used to when he was little and bedridden with sickness. He loved when she did that. But it made him miss home so much more, made him regret his decision to remain in the castle.

“Did you and Tom miss me when I was gone?” Heat prickled his face when the words escaped him. He hadn’t meant to give voice to the worries and doubts that plagued him during his time in the castle. “Can we forget I asked that?”

“Of course, we missed you.” Gwen came around to sit in the chair nearest him. She covered his hand where it rested on the table and squeezed. A warm and soft expression of love washed across her face as she gazed at Arthur. “You’re part of us now and we wouldn’t change you for the world. Our forge hasn’t been the same without you, but your position in the castle is a good thing; you’ve made a difference there. His Highness is still alive because of you! We’ve known you were meant for better things than our forge for a long time, Arthur, but that doesn’t mean you can’t call this place home anymore. You’ll never be unwelcome here.”

Arthur looked away, the barrel of his chest tight with discomfort at her claims of him being meant for more than what he was now, of him having some greater purpose. It prompted thoughts of the discussion with Councillor Ares: no power, no influence, but a target nonetheless. A target for reasons no one knew or understood. But he said nothing of them. Frightening his sister wasn’t on his agenda and it never would be – not when he had the power to prevent it.

“How long has it been since the banquet?”

“The banquet was a week ago,” Gwen answered slowly, her brow furrowing with concern for his wellbeing all over again. It warmed him even as her answer flooded him with surprise. “You spent most of that time lost in a fever, but emerged on the sixth day. You spent another day sleeping here. Sir Tor stopped by this morning, asking whether you were okay, because he said you’d been on the verge of collapse when you bumped into him on the way here yesterday!” Gwen jumped to her feet in surprise when he felt his face flaming, the recollection of their kiss surging to the surface, making his mouth tingle all over again and his heart hammer. She pointed at his face and blasphemed before exclaiming in a hushed voice, “You’ve been kissed!”

“Gwen –”

“This is amazing. I can’t believe it!” Gwen blushed as soon as the words escaped her, her expression turning apologetic at once. She waved her hands around in an almost frantic manner, her excitement bubbling forth despite her apparent apology as she rushed to say, “Not that someone wanting to kiss you is unbelievable, of course, because you deserve the best kisses! But Sir Tor is just so kind and dependable! You couldn’t do better! Unless you went for His Highness...but that...we’re not talking about that.” Gwen released a breath and clapped her hands in front of her face, her dark eyes sparkling with delight. “This is wonderful! Has Sir Tor made an overture? When will the two of you start your courtship?!”

“Guinevere,” Arthur found himself shouting a moment later, “Please stop!”

“I’m sorry,” his sister muttered as she turned away, her exuberance deflating, her strong shoulders slumping. The sight of her defeat sent a flood of remorse through him. He hadn’t meant for that to happen. He’d just wanted her to stop, to give him a moment to breathe under the onslaught of her excitement. Gwen snatched his bowl from the table and hastened away, a wet sniffle following in her wake. “I know I’m too excitable, but I just want you to be happy. Is that so wrong for me?”

 “No, of course not.” Arthur rose from his chair, the broth he’d imbibed providing some measure of strength and determination. He caught her around the middle and pulled her around to face him before Gwen could lose herself in washing the ware, as she would often do to avoid uncomfortable and unwanted discussions in her youth. Arthur drew her into a tight hug. “I’m sorry, too. I never meant to shout at you or ruin this for you.”

“Then why did you?” Gwen asked even as she returned his hug, her arms just as tight around him. She’d been the best giver of hugs he’d ever known. It hadn’t changed now that he’d grown up. “You can be such an arse, you know!”

“So I’ve been told.” Arthur pulled back and looked down at his sister, frowning down at her, remembering her first question. He blew out a breath and looked away, his heart hammering once again. “And I suppose I wasn’t comfortable with where your questions were heading. I’m not certain he means to make an overture. It was just a kiss.”

“Hey, now, don’t sell yourself short.” Gwen smacked his shoulder, smiling up at him despite his uncertain frown. “He’d be a fool not to want a man like you. Now, tell me everything,” she said she ushered him back towards the table, pushing him back down into his vacated chair, “and don’t leave a single thing out!”

The following morning, afloat with encouragement from Gwen and strengthened with a slice of toasted bread and more broth warming his belly, Arthur made his way back to the castle with a bounce in his step, his hair clean and shining. For once, moving through the courtyard was a breeze: none of the guards moving here and there laughed or jeered at his expense. One of the passing maids even offered a small smile. It was bizarre. He couldn’t help but stare over his shoulder, marvelling at the sudden change, before whipping his attention back around as he tripped up the steps leading into the castle. Arthur grazed his palms upon the hard stone, the tender flesh below stinging, the upper layers of skin peeling, but he picked himself back up at once and hastened inside, away from their queer pleasantness.

Arthur roamed the main sections castle in his search for Sir Tor, growing more unnerved with each passing moment. At least three passing chambermaids – having heard of his fall from so and so downstairs – offered to have a look at his grazes and even bestowed hesitant smiles upon him when Arthur fumbled his decline. It was as though someone had enchanted them overnight. He’d have to keep an eye out or he could find a knife between his ribs before the morning was through! Attention sharpening, Arthur moved his search out on to the grounds where he found Lord Robert Ward dramatically retelling the tale regarding a wyvern and the loss of his original leg to a gaggle of excited squires, more than one of whom were his adoptive and magi-natural children with Councillor Ares. His wooden limb looked almost as warm and soft as his dark and handsome skin. His grin was brighter than the sun.

Normally, a man-at-arms would have a lost limb replaced with steel but Arthur knew Councillor Ares had been adamant on the matter; Lord Robert wasn’t to engage others in battle anymore. He was a strategist now, inspiring those under him with his quick mind and quicker smile, holding a special place of honour in Camelot and Mercia.

“Do you know where your son is, milord?” Arthur asked when he’d managed to request a word without sounding like an idiot. The gathered squires sat some distance away, watching them curiously, particularly Lord Robert and Councillor Ares’ set of young twins: Dindrane and Aglovale. The latter looked under the weather, but recovering. It wasn’t a surprise that Lord Robert and his husband had been absent from the banquet a week earlier, if one of their youngest sons had taken ill. “Sir Tor, I mean.”

“I know who you mean. Why, what business has he with you? Because I know you won’t be running missives for His Highness for a whole month.” Lord Robert smirked at him in growing amusement and arched an eyebrow. His green eyes were dark and deep, almost shadows within his angular face. Arthur avoided his unfathomable gaze, aware that his shoulders were tensing, a sure sign that he was keeping something close to his chest. He’d been a terrible deceiver ever since he was a boy, his secrets written across every inch of his body, unable to keep his wrongdoings – like sneaking an extra apple tart after supper – from coming to light. Heat coloured his face. Lord Robert chuckled low, the sound as warm as treacle in summer. “I see. I won’t keep you then. He’s down visiting His Highness.”

Arthur offered his gratitude and bowed his head before hastening away, more than aware that Lord Robert and his husband could put a stop to him in an instant. Surely, no matter how kind Lord Robert had proven to be, neither of them would want their name and household ruined because of an affiliation with Arthur, not after their long years of hard work and devotion to the King. The thought plagued Arthur as he made his way down through the castle, his blood singing, and his feet swift despite the lingering weariness left over from his fever.

The dungeons weren’t very inviting, of course, and a shiver rippled through Arthur as the guardsmen standing watch stepped aside to let him through after a brief glance at one another. Like the other guards earlier, these ones offered no jeering laughter or scorn. His mind turning their change of behaviour over and over, Arthur moved through the first few corridors with great care, his frame tensing in preparation to flee. No one, however, jumped from the frostbitten shadows to plunge a dagger between his ribs.

Relaxing, Arthur laughed at his own expense and kept going, his ears catching the faint sounds of laughter from the next corridor, which ran deeper into the dungeons. Arthur smiled and quickened his pace, only to almost die from fright when a hand lunged through the nearest set of iron bars and hauled him close. It hauled him right up against the solid bars of the cell and into the face of the imprisoned conspirator and his besmirched honour, Maleagant snarling, “That woman said it was just a mild aphrodisiac! I never knew she meant to poison His Highness!”

“What does that matter?”

“You must get Councillor Ares to persuade the King to release me!”

“I don’t have to do anything.” The low and glacial tone of his own voice surprised even Arthur, who’d never felt so much ice growing inside him before. It hardened him. It let him wrench the hand fisting his tunic away, allowed him the strength to squeeze until something crunched in his grasp, earning a startled and pained shout from Maleagant. In the distance, the faint laughter turned to silence. Just the thought of his kind master, or anyone for that matter, under the influence of such a vile narcotic opened a pit of frostbitten chaos inside him. “Your intentions were no better than hers. If I had my way, you’d be drawn and quartered!”

Arthur turned and strode away, the barrel of his chest heaving with cold rage, heedless of the furious shouts that followed after him. He was still seething when he collided with Sir Tor, whose silent footsteps had carried him through the corridor, the hilt of his blade snared in a white-knuckled grip.

Sir Tor gazed past him to the snarling prisoner, and then gripped his elbow, leading him deeper into the dungeons. His attention flicked over Arthur from head to toe.

“Are you alright?”

“You should be asking _him_ that.”

“Maybe, but I’m asking you.”

“No, I’m not alright! That man is a monster,” Arthur growled low, almost tempted to go back and break something in the other hand. “Do you know what he planned to do to His Highness?!”

“Don’t remind me.” Sir Tor stared at him for a long moment or so, his expression unreadable. Arthur looked down at the hand still curled around his elbow, a fraction of his rage slipping away, leaving him a little calmer. Sir Tor wasn’t dressed for training or battle today; instead he wore a simple tunic and a pair of trousers that were finer than anything Arthur had ever had the privilege to wear. He wore a red overcoat with the fastenings left open. Arthur found his attention drifting, shifting towards the small pale crystal hanging down over the loose laces resting across Sir Tor’s sternum. The swirling golden miasma inside was fascinating, mesmerising, but a fingertip pressed below his chin before Arthur could lose himself within. He looked up. “What are you doing down here? I’m certain His Highness doesn’t want you catching a chill after everything he and Gaius did to keep you alive.”

“I wanted to speak with you about the other day, when I woke up.”

“Arthur...”

The discomfort in that one word was plain to hear and Arthur felt his stomach twisting, the enthusiasm and confidence from earlier waning, sputtering like a candle left to the harsh caress of the wind until nothing remained but singe and smoke. He waited for the other boot to fall and when it came, the gentle truth wasn’t pleasant to hear. It felt far too much like a slap. Their kiss was a mistake. One made in a moment of weakness and relief to see him awake, no longer thrashing in the throes of fever and death. Of course, it was. Part of him had known that all along.

Arthur turned and fled the corridor before Sir Tor could finish speaking, his ears ringing, his face aflame with humiliation. He was deaf to the urgent voice asking him to come back and let the man finish what he’d meant to say. Arthur had known their kiss would come to nothing. He’d known and he’d still let Gwen convince him to try, convince him that seeking out Sir Tor would be a good idea. He’d known better and he’d still hoped like a fool. Arthur said nothing until he reached the antechamber, his mouth twisting with bitter anger, his hand hurling the ewer of stale water at the nearest wall as a noise of incomprehensible emotion escaped him. The small table splintered when it followed a moment later.

Sudden weariness forced him to sink down on the edge of the bed as the well of emotion abandoned him.

“You’re such a fool.”


	8. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is lacking a little in dialogue, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.
> 
> A big thank you to anyone still reading/commenting/giving kudos. 
> 
> Please Note:
> 
> 1) Arthur may appear out of character to some in this chapter, but we already know he gets stressed and anxious. His reactions/emotions are heightened in this chapter, as he has less reason to have such "less masculine" emotions concealed in this universe, considering he doesn't have Uther Pendragon breathing down his neck.
> 
> 2) The idea of storing magic in crystals and gemstones isn't mine. It was inspired/influenced by The Inheritance Cycle by Christopher Paolini.
> 
> Anyway, feel free to let me know what you think!

Soredamor, the highest ranking priestess to have survived the purge aside from the infamous witch seeking the death of Arthur, was quick to answer the communication from Councillor Ares. Her response was plain: she had little idea why the former priestess had abandoned her chosen solitude and silence, but she’d keep an open eye in future, more than willing to lend aid when needed. Her answer seemed to satisfy all but Arthur, who often listened to the council discuss other matters with a focused ear, though he came across uncaring and oblivious at the far side of the council chamber, dozing against the stone wall as his master offered opinion after wise opinion. Surely, a woman capable of gazing into the future should know why a rogue sister of the old religion would be wreaking havoc in Camelot!

Dealing with Iseldir, of course, was laced with so much more trouble and annoyance. The Druid Chieftain was hesitant regarding the matter, hardly speaking, and his numerous missives were vague and unhelpful. Eventually, Councillor Ares made an executive decision to visit Iseldir in person and speak with him regarding the matter, having come to an understandable conclusion that words upon parchment would provide no true answers to the enigma after several pointed missives went nowhere.  

Almost seeming to have vanished into the ether, the murderous sorceress made few attempts upon his life after the initial poisoning, but the united realms of Camelot and Mercia made no effort to relax their vigilance: the patrols were doubled and the many practitioners within the border spent countless hours pouring their energy into scrying the realm for any sign of Nimueh until more than one of them collapsed from the effort.

Nimueh remained elusive despite all this and long stretches of peaceful months separated the few murder attempts that did occur. Arthur spent those long months of renewed silence avoiding Sir Tor, who seemed intent on speaking with him after that last debacle of a morning, intent on catching him unawares. But Arthur wasn’t a fool anymore. He’d come to know the castle almost better than anyone else and took full advantage: he made use of her many winding staircases and her numerous passages. A maid or two even helped distract the determined Knight once or twice, to his waning surprise, for he found the lot of them much more amenable ever since the poisoning at the banquet. Gaius claimed it was because Merlin was their favourite nobleman and his act of heroism made it a fraction easier to welcome Arthur.

His welcome was further compounded after he’d helped Merlin vanquish the Afanc dwelling in the reservoir beneath the castle, where he’d laid a trap of flammable oils that Merlin corralled the frightful beast into, before Arthur had thrown his burning torch down and ignited the blaze that Merlin fed with a gust of wind he’d summoned. It had been Arthur that realised how the magical plague had affected so many people while the councilmen argued over the matter, their fears and concerns and suspicions sowing discord among the nobility, each of them wondering whether their neighbour was an agent working for Nimueh.

Arthur was never thanked afterwards.

The thought made him give a bitter laugh now and then.

Soon enough a second new year had turned since Merlin hired Arthur, and summer was fast approaching, the return of Lady Hunith and her daughter with it. The pair had visited the distant continent with Sir Lamorak or so Merlin had informed him one evening, his brow furrowing, his eyes moving swift across the parchment in his grasp – a letter from his younger half-sister, her neat script flowing across the parchment. The small group had been gone for three years and more, most of that time spent travelling, the journey long and harsh. Truly, Arthur was surprised the child had survived the trek. Perhaps there was strong magic in her veins too; it wouldn’t have surprised him.

Their imminent arrival seemed to enliven the castle and all who dwelled within her – even King Bayard could be seen smiling, training and joking around with his nephew, whenever matters of state weren’t so demanding. Those afternoons left Arthur tense and uncomfortable, sitting on a bench nearby, wineskin and towel clutched in his hands.

Merlin loved to spar with his uncle. That much was obvious. Arthur wasn’t about to deny him such a pleasure, no matter how much he might wish to, but he’d hoped Merlin would notice his discomfort and limit the hours he spent sparring with King Bayard. But it just wasn’t to be.

Now, uncle and nephew were training with long knives, one baselard gripped in each hand. Merlin was far more capable with daggers than he ever would be with a sword and it showed: steel clashed against steel as one fluid movement flowed into the next with frightening speed. His hands were a blur of expert precision. King Bayard was barely keeping up, his entire being focused entirely on fending off blow after blow, his increasing age showing more and more with every passing moment. Watching, Arthur felt a spark of vindictive pleasure, knowing Merlin could wipe the floor with his uncle, if he were ever so inclined.

Of course, Merlin wasn’t so inclined and soon claimed fatigue, allowing the companionable match to end before the King’s dignity was shattered to pieces. Arthur waited until King Bayard left the training grounds before rising, closing the distance between himself and Merlin. He passed over the towel and wineskin. Merlin ran the towel over his face and naked torso before gulping back the offered water, his chest heaving, and waves of immense heat rolling off his slender and muscled frame. The spattering of dark hair decorating his chest and stomach glistened with sweat even after Merlin had run the towel over himself twice. The late spring and summer months were torture; while the afternoons could be scorching, it was the vapours in the air that made training a nightmare for Merlin and his men. Honestly, even Arthur found just going up and down the stairs to be troublesome, his head swimming, his skin adhesive with sweat that refused to evaporate. He couldn’t understand how Merlin and his men survived their chainmail on a regular basis.

To think it might have been him in their stead!

Arthur knew he’d have died. The heat of chainmail and armour and vaporous air combined would have killed him long before a blade might have. Merlin could keep all of that reckless nonsense well away from him. He wasn’t envious at all.

“So, how are your studies going,” Merlin asked after he’d run the towel over his face again. He was referring to the hours Arthur often spent pouring over the books on magic, frowning, his attention flicking between the dictionaries Merlin had provided him and the ancient tomes, teaching himself to read the language of the old religion and learning the fallacies of magic. To understand an enemy, he needed to understand the tools used by such an enemy, even though he couldn’t counter the magic himself. “I know you were having trouble with that last book Geoffrey gave you.”

“Don’t remind me, Sire.” Arthur made a face at him. “Half the inscriptions have faded away, and the illustrations hold a fraction of their former glory, but that doesn’t surprise me. That book is older than Camelot. Most of the spells still intact require too much power for even Councillor Ares to manage without collapsing in an exhausted heap! Just the thought of a practitioner powerful enough to use them sends a shiver down my spine. Such a man or woman could part the sea and never break a sweat!”

“Probably, but Nimueh doesn’t have that much raw power – none of the priestesses do, nor the men from the Catha for that matter.” Merlin looked away, taking another long gulp of water. He ran a hand through his damp hair and started heading towards the castle, Arthur picking the abandoned tunic and gambeson up from the ground and matching his long stride in an instant. “Her main crutch would be her experience; the more experience you have with using magic, the more corners you can cut when you need to. She and Ares have that in common.”

“The Catha? Your uncle wanted them to train you, didn’t he?”

“Yes.” Merlin chuckled. “Fortunately, my mother put her foot down. He hasn’t ever been able to say no to her, despite his position. Countless people have fallen prey to her crushing disappointment and have never recovered. My uncle is a wise man at times.”

“Sire, how come you don’t wear any crystals like the other practitioners do,” Arthur asked some minutes later, when he’d caught his breath after mounting the stairs closest to the royal chambers; the air was so much denser inside the castle. Merlin caught his breath far quicker, the bastard. “Gaius has five of them with him at all times!”

“I gave mine to someone else.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I don’t need one,” Merlin answered easily, quickening his pace as the pair of them turned the corner, Arthur quickening to match his stride all over again. He looked askance at Arthur, an amused smile in place, flushed cheeks dimpling. “You know, there are gemstones in the pommels of all my blades for a reason. Gemstones can store a lot more power than a small crystal could. For someone like me, a crystal would be little more than decoration. Ares has a sapphire embedded at the top of his staff and another in the pommel of his sword for the same reason. You needn’t worry; I’ve taken all the precautions I need to, where my magic and the safety of the realm are concerned.”

“Shut up,” Arthur groused as Merlin opened the door and ushered him inside, following a moment later, his slender frame a furnace at his back. Merlin flagged down a passing chambermaid and requested a bath before shutting the door. “I’m not worried. I do, however, believe you should have as many gemstones as possible. You can never have too much power stored for later use.”

“Because you’re such an expert on magic,” Merlin teased with a low chuckle. A smirk played across his mouth. “One gemstone would be enough for me, Arthur, but I have ten and ten is more than enough for anyone with half as much raw power as me. I don’t need to start having belts made with gemstones inlaid in them.”

Arthur huffed in annoyance and waved a dismissive hand as he readied the usual spot for the bathtub. Then he unfolded the screen for when he would begin undressing his master, relieved that he’d overcome the nerves that used to plague him whenever Merlin summoned the bathtub, and fetched a flannel cloth from the cupboard. Merlin was just coming to join him behind the screen when the chambermaids arrived with the bathtub and water, and he hummed some tune he’d picked up somewhere as Arthur unlaced his trousers. Arthur stared at a spot over his shoulder, his hands working on automatic, quick and efficient as he peeled the sweat-sodden clothes away from clammy skin. He’d grown comfortable with everything, but the removal of the tunic, which forced him so much closer, but it wasn’t the worst thing in the world either. Merlin seemed to like that part the most. Not that he ever admitted such a thing, but Arthur could tell: the sharp angles of his face would soften every time, his narrow frame sort of swaying, as though some spell tugged him forward with the motion as Arthur dragged Merlin’s tunic up and over his head.

Those were the moments when Arthur couldn’t help but break his resolve and look at his master, breath catching and apple bobbing, because his raven hair would be a ruffled mess and his smile soft. The sight never failed to leave his abdomen tight and aching.

It was so much worse after Merlin had been training, his frame scorching, the heat rolling off him in waves so thick he could have boiled a few eggs in it. Just being near him made Arthur sweat. Almost idly, he wondered what it would be like to be enveloped by such a furnace, but he pushed the thought aside as the chambermaids left the chamber, leaving sudden silence in their wake. A moment later Merlin was climbing into the bathtub, inhaling at the first touch of frigid water, before settling down with a relieved moan. Merlin preferred to wash in frigid water whenever the air was so dense with moisture, preferred not to sweat even further, his flesh cooling until goose bumps rose and shivers rolled through his frame.

Arthur luxuriated in the act of washing his hair, in the blessed chill winding its way through his arms as Merlin melted into a puddle in his grasp. Merlin never babbled when his hair was being washed and the thought made him smile, more than a little amused that his ministrations made Merlin speechless. He let the comfortable silence wash over them. His hands were red with cold when Arthur withdrew, the raven locks in front of him sodden and flat against Merlin’s scalp, and Merlin was shivering. Arthur fetched a large towel and returned to the bathtub, unsurprised when Merlin rose, practically falling out of the water, letting Arthur catch him around the middle and wrap the towel around him.

Merlin shivered and sighed as Arthur rubbed him dry, his strong hands gripping broad shoulders for balance as his limbs attempted to regain some sense of feeling after such prolonged exposure to the cold. Merlin clung to him when he was cold as lichen clung to rock. The knowledge that Merlin wanted him to warm him up used to make Arthur more uncomfortable than he could bear, but he’d relaxed during the two years of his employment in the castle – at least enough not to bolt as soon as Merlin let him go, anyway. It was enough to make his job more bearable.

Dressing him was a quick and simple affair: Merlin wanted to wear as few layers as possible and Arthur obliged easily, smiling when Merlin hummed as the soft tunic – fetched from the laundresses that morning, along with a large bundle of other garments and bedclothes – settled over his skin. While his master was appreciative, he wasn’t one for melting into a puddle whenever he came in contact with something soft. He wasn’t like Arthur. Honestly, working and living in the castle had Arthur spoiled beyond measure, even counting all the dangers lurking around every corner. Merlin laughed whenever Arthur dived into a bundle of his own laundered clothing, courtesy of one of the laundresses whose life had been spared when he and Merlin vanquished the Afanc together, and teased him about it for at least an hour each time it happened.

What an annoying bastard.

“Arthur, would you mind running this book down to Gaius for me,” Merlin asked from behind his writing desk an hour or so later, shattering the comfortable silence that had settled between them. He offered a tired smile as Arthur glanced over at him from his favourite chair by the fireplace, where he’d been oiling the longbow. Merlin patted the book with one hand and clutched his quill with the other, his shoulders still hunched over the countless proposals he had to read before the council session that evening. Black ink stained his fingers. “He said he needed to borrow it for a while and I forgot to give it to him this morning.”

“Sure.” Arthur set aside the longbow, taking a moment or two to clean his hands with a cloth before crossing the chamber, his footsteps quick and light – a skill he’d been forced to develop after Merlin started dragging him on his hunting trips with the men. Of course, Merlin abhorred hunting, and only did so out of duty, but he never complained about it. He often let Arthur do the complaining for him instead. Arthur pulled the book from the table and tucked it between his arm and the barrel of his chest. “Is there anything else you’d like me to do on the way, Sire?”

“No, I can’t think of anything, but for you to use my name more often.” Merlin gave him another tired smile before looking down at the assortment of proposals with a longsuffering sigh. He fiddled with his quill for a moment. “You never say it unless you’re under some sort of duress or I’m in danger, or something. You know you won’t get in trouble for abandoning the formal address in here, don’t you?”

“I do know,” Arthur answered quietly, his arm tightening across the book even as a pang of regret pulsed through him. Merlin avoided looking at him. “But saying your name in here would just make it easier to say your name out there without meaning to. I’m sorry.”

“Of course,” Merlin murmured as he buried his head in his duty, “forget I asked. Get going before the day gets any older.” Arthur watched him for a long moment before turning, striding across the chamber, his stomach churning with another deep pulse of regret. He was at the door when Merlin spoke again. “Inform the stable hands that I want Hengroen and Llamrei prepared for the morning, after we break our fast. We’ll be going for a ride.”

Arthur beamed and slipped through the door, slipped away before he could say or do something stupid and reckless that would just get them both into trouble. He went down to Gaius first and spent several minutes listening to the physician complaining, marvelling how Merlin remembered anything, when his head wasn’t attached half the time. His complaints were fond as his aged fingers shifted through the pages. Arthur wondered what it would be like to live so long, to have seen and experienced so much heartbreak and joy, so much life. He wondered whether he’d ever have that. He’d like to.

Eventually, Arthur excused himself with reluctance and made his way outside, keeping his chin up even as the stable hands sneered at him when he entered the stables across the courtyard. The stable hands remained the one collection of castle staff that made no effort to welcome Arthur, even after everything he had done to keep the people safe with Merlin. Arthur passed on the order in as calm a voice as he could manage and retreated before one of them could say anything, allude to anything, or put fear of the King in him. He wasn’t going to let them cow him. Not anymore. He had as much right to work in the castle as anyone else hired by the ruling class; it wasn’t his fault that others in his peerage weren’t more tolerant of those most in need of welcome and understanding.

Arthur made his way back through the castle and was almost back to the royal chambers when Councillor Ares rounded the corner at the other end of the corridor, an urgent and somewhat alarming air of excitement around him as his black travelling cloak billowed in his wake. His eyes sparked like a predator after a deer when he spotted Arthur, who made a quick about-face, almost managing to make an escape before Councillor Ares appeared before him in the midst of a whirlwind and his eyes a blaze of molten magic. A moment later Arthur released a pained grunt when Councillor Ares shoved him up against the stone wall within an escape tunnel concealed behind a tapestry, eyes still flecked with golden magic, mouth curling in a slow smile as the darkness settled around them.

“It took some time and much persuading, but Iseldir cracked at last. I know who you are, Arthur Pendragon.”

“Do you want a clap, milord? Remembering peoples’ names isn’t anything special.”

“You have no idea what you’re meant to become, do you?” Councillor Ares’ smile broadened and his face took on a mystified expression. His gaze grew almost reverent as it swept over the contours of Arthur’s face. His hand gentled where it had fisted Arthur’s tunic, fingers aided by the faintest touch of magic now smoothing away the wrinkles and creases he’d caused. “My grandmother used to tell me bedtime stories about your coming, you know, but I always thought it was just something Druids told to their children to make them behave. Guess I was wrong.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about your future! When you and Emrys rule together,” Councillor Ares almost purred as he withdrew, “I want a place on your high council.”

Arthur paled at the words spoken. He didn’t pause to think or to demand to know who this Emrys figure might be, to know who would dare move against Merlin and expect Arthur to go along with them. Instead he denied the accusation voiced. Even so, his words escaped strangled and hoarse, disturbing the hushed darkness around them in a way that his earlier hissed whisper hadn’t: “You speak treason!”

“That all depends on who you consider King, doesn’t it?” Councillor Ares stared at him as a cat might stare at a mouse, hungry, obsessed and dedicated. His eyes blazed. His cheeks flushed with eagerness. Arthur gripped the stone at his back and tried to take strength from the castle, from the rasp of stone against his fingertips and palms. Councillor Ares let his smile grow, saying, “Don’t worry; your secret is safe with me. Just remember what I asked for.”

Councillor Ares’ low chuckle lingered after he disappeared in the midst of another whirlwind that buffeted Arthur, whipping his hair and clothes with so much force and in such a confined space that it stole the breath from him. His knees buckled as soon as the last wind was gone and Arthur found himself sitting on the floor, his back stinging where it had scraped against the stone wall. He couldn’t believe what Councillor Ares had said. What he’d implied. It wasn’t conscionable. How could anyone expect him to betray Merlin after everything they’d done together, everything they’d been through together, between poisonings and magical beasts with dark purpose, and the ambushes of bandits they’d faced more than once – Merlin armed with sword and magic, and Arthur armed with a rock the size of his fist or a thick stick for a club, the one a whirlwind of practiced ease and finesse and the other an untrained fool prone to getting knocked on his arse, but determined to help nonetheless. He’d even managed to shatter the skull of the bastard that attempted to throw Deorwynn over his shoulder when she’d been out collecting herbs for Gaius!

It took a few minutes for Arthur to regain the use of his legs and he hastened back to Merlin as soon as he had done so, his shoulders aching with tension and his gaze flicking over his shoulder, wary that someone might have seen or heard Councillor Ares’ speaking to him. There was no one, lurking or otherwise, but Arthur locked the door as soon as he returned all the same. He stared hard at the door until a familiar hand gripped his shoulder, startling, forceful as it turned him around to face his master, who looked at him with growing concern.

“Arthur, what happened? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

“I’m okay,” Arthur croaked as he gave another glance at the door, the apple in his throat bobbing at the thought of armed guards bursting through the door, and prepared to drag him to the gallows – no matter how many of them might now regret having to do so. Merlin squeezed his shoulder tighter, forcing his attention back to him in an instant. It was obvious Merlin didn’t believe him. It wasn’t a surprise, but he’d hoped he could lie just once, and know himself to be safe and secure without having to alarm his master. “I haven’t seen a ghost. Something I...overheard...alarmed me. Do you know of anyone named Emrys?”

“I do,” Merlin answered quietly, his concern fading into something akin to suspicious disbelief. His eyes narrowed and he stepped forward until Arthur found himself pinned against the door, the sting in his back flaring, his attention locked upon Merlin. “But I also know the Druids were sworn to secrecy, so whoever mentioned this name near you must have gone to impressive lengths to uncover it. What have you heard?”

“I overheard that this person intends to become King. That he or she and...someone we both know...are suspected of conspiring to rule together one day.” Arthur pressed back harder against the door, attempting to take strength from the flare of pain across his scraped skin. His heart leapt into his throat and lodged there as he glanced at the two pale wrists now caging him against the wood. His lungs seized in his chest as Arthur began babbling, his nerves fraying, his heart pounding, his skin dampening with sweat. “I swear I don’t know who Emrys is or where he or she could be! But the suspicion surrounding the other person is unfounded! I would never move against you! I would never –”

“Arthur!” Two hands framed his face, forcing him still when Arthur began to fret and ramble over and over, his assurances growing more shrill and shakier. His whole frame tightened. He couldn’t breathe. Arthur clutched at the tunic in front of him in desperation as his seizing lungs protested. Black spots bloomed across his vision. Merlin kept speaking, speaking over the strangled and fearful noises that escaped Arthur, but he couldn’t hear a thing as his knees hit the stone, his weight dragging Merlin down with him. Merlin forced him to move, to look at him now, and Arthur latched onto that offered ledge, coaxing himself to breathe as Merlin pressed a hand below his ribcage, his touch warm and gentle through his tunic, but firm. It grounded him. Each shuddering breath that Arthur dragged inside pushed against that hand until the black spots in his vision faded away, dwindling to nothing, leaving him tired and worn as Merlin could to speak. “That’s it. Just keep breathing, Arthur,” Merlin breathed through an encouraging smile, the expression warming his whole face. “I know you’d never move against me. Of course, I know that. You don’t have a traitorous bone in your whole body, no matter what anyone else thinks. You and I know better.”

Humiliation flooded through Arthur, battling against the relief that surged inside him. He’d made a mess of the explanation. He’d made a spectacle of himself! Arthur tore his attention away, wrenched himself free, and rose to his feet despite the lingering shakiness in his limbs. He crossed the chamber and distracted himself with chores, with sorting through the proposals still littered across the writing desk based on importance, chances of coming to pass, and utter stupidity.

“Arthur, please don’t be like that.” Merlin followed him across the chamber; his master often did when Arthur found himself churning with emotions. Merlin didn’t reach out to touch Arthur, allowing him some small measure of privacy. Some hesitant part of Arthur wanted to reach out instead and close the distance, but he couldn’t do that. He hadn’t been able to do any of the things he’d wanted to in the last two years and this was no different. “Please don’t shut me out. What happened here could have happened to anyone. You don’t need to feel ashamed. You can trust me with anything, you know.”

“I know that. It doesn’t mean letting go gets easier.” Arthur hated Merlin for a single instant. The sensation was fleeting, however, quickly replaced with resignation. A tired huff of laughter escaped him. He fiddled with the proposals in his hands and looked askance at Merlin – who looked like someone who’d trodden on their favourite dog’s foot accidentally, the dismay and apology all tangled up together, making a mess of his face. “I suppose I should thank you. For what you did and for...for believing me. Your uncle wouldn’t have.”

“I’m not my uncle, Arthur. You know that.” Merlin touched his shoulder, his hand hesitant and unsure. “When I’m King...”

“Don’t.” Arthur pulled away, increasing the distance between them with each step, moving towards the window. He watched the various people crossing the courtyard. Sir Tor was among them. Arthur watched him stride across the cobblestones, each step sure, each command obeyed in an instant. Watching him go, Arthur remembered their kiss and felt a stab of pain in his stomach at the memory, wondering still what he must have done wrong, what he’d done to make such a thing a mistake. He wondered why he’d ever hoped that something, even something as pointless and infuriating as romance, could happen to him too. “Don’t make promises we both know you can’t keep. Your uncle is alive and well and when you do become King, you’ll be expected to take a partner, and we both know it can’t be me. Your council would throw a fit.”

“Arthur –”

“Second to Her Highness, of course, the councilmen favour Sir Tor, but his parents’ inclusion in the council makes him obvious an obvious choice, given his ties with Councillor Ares’ power. Still he...he cares for you a great deal. He respects you above even the King, and he stands for all the things you do, and he’s a better man than some people deserve. You’d do well with him at your side.”

“I don’t doubt that.” Merlin sounded as resigned over the matter as Arthur felt. “But you’re forgetting one thing: I’m not in love with him and he’s not in love with me either. I’ve already said I won’t marry for anything less than love.”

“You say that like you have a choice,” Arthur scoffed before looking over his shoulder, giving his master a deadpan stare. “You won’t be able to make a single decision without speaking to an advisor or more, without weighing it against the needs of your people, and your people need a strong figurehead to take over when you die. Not just anyone can fit into that role and make sure the realm won’t founder in your absence. You need to choose wisely, Merlin. Don’t leave your kingdom in ruins just because you’re a stubborn arse and refuse to listen to reason.” He looked back out the window, unable to bear looking at Merlin any longer, unable to watch the visible heartache spreading. Arthur watched Sir Tor mount his charger and wallowed in his own heartache, as he’d grown accustomed to over the last two years. “Your heart doesn’t know what it wants. It doesn’t understand common sense and logic, and that’s dangerous when you’re a monarch. You have to consider all the threads making up your tapestry, the many ways your decisions can ruin something, can cause your realm to fall apart at the seams. Love doesn’t have a place on the throne.”

Arthur swallowed the urge to turn around when the door slammed shut behind him. He hadn’t even heard Merlin move, hadn’t heard the rustle of his clothes or the kiss of his boots against the stone. Arthur made no effort to give chase, made no effort to say he didn’t mean what he’d said a moment ago, that Merlin could make whatever promises he wanted as long as he didn’t leave, as long as he’d never leave. He knew better than to chase after him. He knew better than to think he’d ever have a chance, even when Merlin did become King one day; there were too many variables to consider, too many chances for promises to be torn asunder.

It was a subject best never discussed.

Staring out the window, Arthur wasn’t surprised when Merlin appeared in the courtyard or when he ordered the stable hands to prepare his horse, but it ached to watch him go. It ached to watch him follow after Sir Tor, urging Llamrei across the cobblestones at a safe pace, but driving her into a gallop as soon as he’d cleared them. Arthur turned away from the window, returned to his favourite chair, and distracted himself from the growing sting in his eyes by returning to his chores.

He needed to finish oiling the longbow, anyway.

 

 


	9. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, folks. Here's another chapter. A big thank you to everyone who commented or left kudos since the last chapter was posted!
> 
> Warning: This chapter contains corporal punishment and mentions of slavery and abuse.

Merlin didn’t return from his ride until that evening, bursting through the door a short while before he’d be needed in the council chamber, his back straight with tension and his chin lifted in irritation. He looked windswept and rumpled. Arthur looked away, his chest tight with discomfort at the thought that he’d caught up with Sir Tor, at the thought that he’d engaged him already, despite the protests Merlin had given at the notion. But it wasn’t his business. His master could do whatever he liked...with whomever, as long as it broke no laws. Arthur ignored the surge of bitterness flooding his stomach as he abandoned the chore he’d last taken up, hastening towards the wardrobe, fetching a fresh set of clothes for his master. It wouldn’t do for him to arrive smelling like horse and wilderness.

Neither of them spoke as Arthur dressed him.

Merlin never even looked at him once in the time between dressing and his arrival in the council chamber, his expression carved from stone, without depth or feeling, without any hint of his usual amiable demeanour. Arthur followed in his wake, knowing he was to blame and uncertain how to fix it without endangering him or his master, without outing them both to the councilmen gathered before them. He took his usual place and watched Merlin do the same, taking his seat to the right of the King’s vacant chair, opposite Councillor Ares.

Councillor Ares stared at Arthur with the same predatory hunger from earlier, but muted until it was almost unnoticeable. Arthur wouldn’t have noticed either, had he not been exposed to the sorcerer and his hunger earlier, exposed to his obsession and dedication. He watched as Councillor Ares wet his lips before turning, smiling, murmuring into Lord Robert’s ear, covering his hand atop the table and squeezing. Lord Robert blinked and looked askance, surprise playing across his face, and for a moment Arthur feared Councillor Ares had blabbed whatever secret he’d discovered. Such a thing wouldn’t have surprised him. He knew it wasn’t right to keep secrets from a partner, though he’d never had one himself.

Arthur dragged his attention away at the arrival of the King, his arrival announced by the rising of councilmen down the length of the table. He followed his hastened strides with a watchful gaze, wary, wondering whether this moment might be one in which King Bayard decided to remove him from existence. It was a constant fear, but one often muted in Merlin’s presence of late. Right now, however, Arthur had no such protection. He had no protection against the hatred and scorn King Bayard sent him in a single seething glance, nor against his turbulent whims.

More than once in the last year, Merlin had come back from an evening with his men down at the tavern to find Arthur treating a bruise, caught him in the act of smothering the swollen and discoloured flesh with a salve. He’d been enraged. He’d demanded to know who’d harmed Arthur, had sworn whoever had done so would be punished. Arthur hadn’t been able to answer, hadn’t been brave or reckless enough to tell him it was the King.

King Bayard took vindictive pleasure in hurting Arthur, in striking the nearest part of him with the flat of his blade, in threatening to squeeze the life out of him with his fist and even threatening to sell him to King Alined of Deorham whenever Arthur slipped in his duty.

Just the thought made him pale. Word had reached even Camelot and Mercia of Alined’s stance on slavery, of his treatment of the young men he’d purchased from other realms. The last young man he’d purchased had been abused to the point that he’d jumped from the nearest tower, breaking himself upon the flagstones below, preferring death to his treatment from the King, and word had reached Camelot on the tongues of travellers and roaming traders. Arthur could still remember the churning of his stomach when he’d heard what happened. He could still remember the way Merlin had clenched his jaw, his hand tightening around a glass chalice until it shattered in his grasp, his expression more than a little alarming. But it was a comfort to know Merlin would never let such a thing happen to anyone from Camelot and Mercia. It was a comfort to know he’d come after Arthur, if he was ever sold by the King, that he’d wage war sooner than let any of his people suffer such heinous treatment.

Somehow, Arthur refrained from glancing at Merlin as the council session moved through a number of important discussions – from the grain and other produce counted and stored to the combined finances of Camelot and Mercia. Several minutes were spent discussing the rise in insurgent Saxons and the increased patrols that would be necessary, not to mention the forging of weapons for the newest batch of recruits that still trained with wasters – all promising young men that Merlin and Sir Tor recommended for future knighthood.

Just as the King was about to rise, decisions made and discussions winding to a close, Lord Robert cleared his throat and silence fell down the length of the table. The sound prompted the King to remain seated as he arched an expectant eyebrow at Lord Robert and Councillor Ares, who was at that moment retrieving a scroll from within his voluminous periwinkle sleeve and duplicating it for each member of the council.

“Your Majesty,” Lord Robert began carefully, his head up, but his gaze downcast respectfully, “if we may, Ares and I would like to add a late proposal for discussion this evening.”

“I’d prefer not to, but very well.” King Bayard let his weariness be known and reached for the original scroll Councillor Ares proffered a moment later, the latter twiddling his thumbs and smiling pleasantly, watching the King unfurl the scroll. “This has to be a joke,” King Bayard said after he almost choked on his tongue, crushing the scroll in his grasp, glaring at Councillor Ares and Lord Robert with derisive fire. An uncomfortable silence rippled down the table as the other councilmen read through their own copies, gasping, gaping at Councillor Ares and his husband. Arthur watched the proceedings with intrigue, and more than a little uncertainty, especially when Merlin looked over his shoulder at him for the first time since he’d returned from his ride. Confusion and suspicion played across his features with equal strength. Arthur might have paid him more attention had King Bayard not started growling, “Are you suggesting we give Pendragon a weapon?”

“No, I’m suggesting a minor amendment to the law, Sire.” Councillor Ares kept his attention fastened upon the King – as did Arthur, his face paling, his heart attempting to rip its way out through his chest in mounting terror. “As we know, Arthur is the target of one of the most dangerous women in Albion and he should be able to defend himself in a moment of peril. I’m not suggesting we train him to use a sword or enlist him in the army, but some supervised basic training with a baselard shouldn’t be out of the question. Arthur has proven himself trustworthy, Sire, and positive reinforcement could inspire further trustworthiness and loyalty. Men aren’t so different from dogs in that regard.”

“I agree, Ares,” Merlin piped up, his back straight and his tone unforgiving, “but I’d rather you not insult my staff.” Arthur swallowed as Councillor Ares raised his hands in surrender to the point and smiled before Merlin turned his attention to the King, his voice taking on an imploring tone. “Your Majesty, Arthur almost gave his life for me and has worked hard to ensure the safety of our people since he became my manservant. We would reward another man for being so dedicated and brave; I don’t see why Arthur should be denied similar treatment. When we start ostracising people for something as innocent as heritage, we become almost no better than Uther Pendragon. Sire, we need to take the higher road here.”

“The birth of that man is the reason your father is dead!”

“And magic is the reason his mother is!” Surprise rippled down the table at the furious shout that escaped Merlin. A number of councilmen shifted their chairs away him in miniscule increments. Arthur, however, wanted to jump out the nearest window or bolt from the council chamber, anything to avoid the growing tension among the councilmen. “Arthur is innocent of murder, just like my father, just like the countless other practitioners persecuted during the purge. We can’t pick and choose who to blame at our whim!”

“Are you questioning my authority?”

“No, I’m questioning your decisions. Sire, you have a council for a reason and if you aren’t willing to listen to them on things that matter, why did you even select a council in the first place? I agree with amending the law; Arthur should have the right to defend himself when in danger. I’m willing to train and supervise him myself – as will Sir Tor, I’m sure.” Arthur swallowed a sound of horror when Merlin glanced across the table at Lord Robert and Councillor Ares for confirmation and received a nod in return. “No one has suggested that Arthur be armed at all times, if you’re so concerned he might stab me in my sleep or something equally ridiculous. If he is in danger, he can take a baselard from me or Sir Tor. If he proves his trustworthiness further in future, then the law can be amended again. Such is the nature of law; it bends and shifts with the times. Can all in favour of this minor amendment please raise a hand?”

Arthur paled as more than two thirds of the council raised a hesitant hand in the air, glancing at each other in mounting relief at having some support. Bile rose in his throat when King Bayard turned his furious gaze upon Arthur and rose from his chair, his hand going for the sword at his hip at once, only to find Merlin rising in answer, eyes blazing gold and expression angry.

Arthur attempted to disappear through the stone wall behind him when King Bayard summoned the guards at the top of his voice, the sentries filing in at once. His brother, muscled frame tight with tension and uncertainty, led them inside and flicked his attention towards Arthur, scolding and cautioning in the same sweep. Leather creaked as his hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. Arthur wasn’t a fool. He knew better than to make a move, knowing that swords could be drawn in an instant. Elyan was known among the ranks for his intense loyalty, but Arthur knew he’d turn in a heartbeat when it came to a choice between the crown and family, and he just hoped such a moment would never come. He couldn’t stomach the thought of Elyan tarnishing his own name just to help him escape the council chamber; Arthur knew his life wasn’t worth such sacrifice. Nor was it worth the schism that Merlin threatened with his rise against the King, in front of menservants and councilmen alike.

“Boy,” King Bayard said coldly, his voice calm and low, “I want His Highness escorted to the public whipping post. Summon Sir Tor and have him administer twenty, and twice as much if he dares to refuse. Take Pendragon with you. I want him to stand witness.”

It felt as though he’d been kicked in the stomach as Elyan approached and curled a hand around his elbow, pulling him along, allowing his comrades to escort Merlin from the council chamber as a pleased smile flickered across Councillor Ares’ face. He couldn’t fathom how anyone could be pleased with what happened. How anyone could be glad that Merlin would be whipped in public, made an example to the commoners that not even His Highness bore immunity for taking a stance against the King. Just the thought made bile rise once more, and Arthur could do nothing but swallow, staring at the proud line Merlin’s back as he walked between the guardsmen with his chin up.

Merlin remained tall and proud even after the group reached the town square, where Sir Tor was already waiting, clutching the whip, having been summoned by one of the passing maids as Merlin was escorted through the castle. Sir Tor glanced at Arthur, hesitant and unsure, but said nothing, turning his attention back to Merlin. Offering a strained smile, Merlin stopped at the whipping post and removed his coat and tunic, tossing them aside without a care. Arthur watched him face the post and offer his forearms up, allowing the guardsmen to step close and fasten the waiting manacles around his wrists. A series of ancient runes from the old religion flared to life across the cold iron manacles and Merlin let a moan escape, his muscles tensing against pain and releasing, a shudder rippling through his frame. His eyes flickered between blue and gold in rapid succession as his magic attempted to burst free, suppressed as it was by the manacles.

A crowd was gathering already, whispering, watching as Sir Tor removed his belt and folded the leather. He raised the folded leather and Merlin parted his lips, accepting the offer made, biting down upon the leather to prevent himself from biting through his tongue by mistake. Arthur, his stomach churning, attempted to break away, attempted to lunge forward and offer his own back in his place. His brother, however, gripped him tighter and wrenched him back to his side, snapping, “You’ll make it worse for him in the long run! Just stay put and put on a brave face.”

Arthur swallowed bile and watched as Sir Tor unfurled the whip, letting the tip almost kiss the ground before he snapped it. It arched through the air like lightning. Merlin arched in response, a muted noise escaping through the leather, his hands fisting until his knuckles whitened. No one said a word as Sir Tor counted stroke after stroke, each lash ripping a new wound across pale skin and sending blood downward to soak into his trousers. Merlin took almost every stroke after that first one without letting out a single noise, his jaw clenched tight around the leather, his face streaked with sweat and tears as his knees buckled as Sir Tor gave him the last stroke.

Elyan released him then.

Arthur stumbled forward as Sir Tor threw the whip aside with a snarl and made to unlock the manacles keeping Merlin captive. He reached his master in time to catch him as Merlin crumpled in agony, swallowing a sob when Merlin flinched away, his back a mess of blood and fire. Uncaring of making a scene, Arthur draped Merlin over his shoulder like a sack of flour, glad for his previous experience, aware that Merlin weighed so much more than he looked – perhaps it was the magic weighing him down. He didn’t know. He didn’t care. All he knew was that he had to get Merlin to Gaius at once. Merlin groaned in pain as Arthur moved away, limp where he draped over his shoulder, and Arthur tried to be as gentle as possible despite his haste, knowing each kiss of the whip had been his fault.

If his life wasn’t such a damned mess, none of this would have happened. If he’d been just a commoner, instead of manservant to the Prince, Merlin would never have had to do this. He would never have had to make a stand against the King.

Sir Tor was just a few steps behind him when Arthur kicked the door to Gaius’ chambers open and stormed inside. Arthur called for help, carried Merlin to the table, and croaked his gratitude as Sir Tor moved to help him lay Merlin down on his belly, both of them reaching to card a hand through raven hair in the same instant. The pair of them flushed and looked away, relieved when Gaius came bustling out from the anteroom in a flurry of movement. He started snapping commands as soon as he saw the raw, fiery, bloody state of Merlin’s back. Arthur hastened to obey. His hands shook as he fetched cloths and water, pastes and bandages. Sir Tor carded a hand through Merlin’s hair all the while and murmured soothing words that Arthur couldn’t catch. Words that he didn’t _want_ to catch.

Arthur tended to Merlin under Gaius’ strict commands. Merlin whimpered and twitched upon the table, hissed when Arthur smothered the healing paste across his wounds. Merlin was wrapped up in bandages soon enough and Arthur draped him over his shoulder once more, his master slumped now, his frame limp after Gaius slipped him a strong sedative. He ignored the steps echoing his as he carried Merlin through the castle, ignored the brush of an arm against his each time he turned a corner, and ignored the glances Sir Tor kept sending his way. It wasn’t the time for talking, nor even thinking. Not when Merlin was hurt.

Neither of them spoke as the three of them reached the royal bedchamber, Sir Tor moving all but one pillow aside, so Merlin wouldn’t smother when Arthur laid him down on the bed. Merlin was already asleep, carefree for the first time since their argument.

“Arthur,” Sir Tor murmured when Arthur drew away, distancing himself from the dark hair that his fingers were so tempted to reach for, swallowing when a gentle hand gripped his elbow, “you and I need to talk. You’ve been avoiding me.”

“Now isn’t the time.”

“No, now is the perfect time. We both know you aren’t willing to leave the room with His Highness in this state.” His scars underscoring the regret on his face, Sir Tor offered a strained smile. He ushered Arthur across the chamber, releasing a sigh of relief when Arthur let himself be pushed down into a chair, his nerves wreaking havoc. Arthur stared down at his hands as the man that kissed and later rejected him pulled another chair closer, sitting close enough to gather Arthur’s hand between both of his. Just as he’d done the day he’d surfaced after the poisoning. His emotions were a riot inside him. “Arthur, I need you to know it was never my intention to hurt you. I never wanted you to believe I thought you undesirable or unlovable – because you are both of those in spades.”

“Sir –”

“Tor,” the man insisted quietly, his hands squeezing, almost caressing, “just Tor, when we’re in private.” Just the thought of using his given name alone made Arthur flush with heat. He knew such an honorific would be abandoned between lovers – and to a lesser degree, between mentors and their students: like between Merlin and Councillor Ares during the council session. “Arthur, I couldn’t pursue you in good conscience, not when I knew I could never make you an offer of marriage. No matter how much I wanted to. King Bayard bestowed lands upon my father, when I was just a small boy, for commendable service to the crown and if he knew what I wanted to do...he’d strip us of them. I need to take care of my family, first and foremost.”

“Then why did you –”

“I kissed you because I wanted to, Arthur. Because you were there, wrapped up safe and alive in my embrace, and I wanted to. I couldn’t breathe for wanting to kiss you. Just as I want so much to kiss you now.” A sad smile pulled at his mouth as a regretful chuckle escaped Sir Tor. Arthur swallowed as the man raised a hand and cupped his face, caressing, just for a moment. The rough touch of calluses against his skin sent a shiver through him. Arthur twitched away, dislodging the touch in an instant. He pulled his hands from Sir Tor’s grasp, moving to keep them safe and secure between his thighs. Sir Tor glanced towards the prone form of Merlin and back. “These two years have been filled with nothing but wanting, but we both know nothing can come of this now; settling down with you is impossible until His Highness becomes King, and I imagine you’d rather settle down with _him_ then.”

The force of his sudden momentum toppled the chair behind him. The poker from the fireplace was in his grasp a moment later, and Arthur brandished it like a weapon as Sir Tor lunged free of his own chair.

“Now, wait just a minute!” The words came out little louder than a hissed whisper, an urgent expression washing across his scarred face as Arthur came at him. Sir Tor ducked one wild swing, and another, before charging in hard and fast. A pained gasp escaped Arthur as the force drove him up against the fireplace, pushing the air from his lungs in the process, Sir Tor wrenching the poker from his grasp and letting it clatter to the stone floor beneath them. “You know I’d never turn on His Highness! I’d never turn on either of you!”

“If it came to a choice between revealing this secret and protecting your family, we both know what you’d choose. Don’t pretend otherwise!” Arthur threw a fist when he managed to catch his breath and wasn’t surprised when it was pinned in place, pinned against the stone beside his head. Sir Tor pressed closer, squashing him against the mantelpiece, removing every inch of his leverage and sending an ache through his spine as his back curved under the pressure. A groan of pain escaped him before Arthur could swallow it. “Let go of me, you bastard.”

Sir Tor arched an eyebrow.

“Are you going to take another swing at me, if I do?”

“Why don’t you let me go and we’ll find out?”

A burst of laughter escaped Sir Tor an instant before he stepped away, releasing Arthur, who felt both invigorated and disgruntled all at once. He rubbed at his lower spine and knew he’d have a hideous bruise before the evening’s end. Arthur scowled as Sir Tor reclaimed his chair, casting a glance at the figure still sleeping, his expression soft and more than a little adoring. Suddenly, Arthur felt as though he were intruding, as though he’d walked in on something intimate. He turned and faced the fireplace. He braced his hands against the mantelpiece and hung his head.

“You know, for someone who claims to love me, you and he seem close.”

“We’re very close.” Arthur could hear the smile colouring his voice. He wondered what it was like to be so cared for, that even talking about him could earn a smile. “I’ve known him since he was tiny, since before he was wreaking havoc in the kitchens with that damned dragon of his. I was a few years older when that started happening, of course, nine summers to his five and he was so unruly, but sweet as pie when he liked you. He kept conjuring flowers and butterflies for my father, Ares, and that was before he’d even learned the spell in his lessons!” Sir Tor chuckled low and soft. “Father adored His Highness. He expected me to keep him out of trouble, but it was impossible! His Highness was as curious and as mischievous as a cat!”

Arthur found himself turning, moving towards his fallen chair. Merlin never spoke about a thing, but for his mother and sister, and how eager he was to see them again. How he’d missed them. He never spoke about his childhood at the castle or the friends he’d made in his youth. Nor even how he’d earned the few scars decorating his limbs – not that Arthur couldn’t guess, of course, but that wasn’t the point. He’d ached to know more of Merlin since the beginning, though he’d never acknowledged the desire, not even to himself. But now, now there was a fount of knowledge bubbling, and his sudden thirst almost overwhelmed him.

“Tor,” said Arthur, squashing the shiver the privilege sent down his spine, “you have to be making this up; the dragons were massacred during the purge. Gaius told me so last year, when I came across them in one of his books.”

“The dragons were almost eradicated during the purge, true, but your father wasn’t as successful as he’d hoped. Precautions were taken when prophetesses woke screaming across the realms. Numerous eggs were hidden across Albion. His Highness found his first egg when he was four, this tiny sparkling thing he’d found at the bottom of a shallow river, and he’d come rushing back to show my father, bursting with excitement.”

“Did he know what it was?” Arthur at last settled down in his chair, leaned forward and let his eagerness for the conversation be seen. It wasn’t often he got to speak with someone who knew Merlin so well. “Your father, I mean.”

“Of course, he knew. What kind of sorcerer do you take him for?” Sir Tor gave him a look. “Father felt the magic as soon as His Highness dropped the little thing into his palm. Fortunately, for everyone in the castle, it was just a miniature; it never grew larger than a domestic cat. The two of them were inseparable at once.” Sir Tor looked over at the sleeping figure and smiled. “Dragons are his special thing; he just kept finding them as he grew up, concealed in caves and rivers, and even once concealed behind an enchantment in the hollow of a tree. The High Priest of the Catha even came bearing a white egg, claiming it boded well for Albion. His Highness helped each one hatch and raised them – with a little help from Gaius and my father, both of whom were very enthused on the subject of raising dragons.”

Sir Tor kept speaking, his voice low, telling him about the varieties he’d encountered growing up until their number grew too numerous or too large to be kept in the castle. Arthur listened as the conversation shifted to cover the transfer of dragons from the citadel to the White Mountains – where Councillor Ares and Merlin worked together to create a safe haven for the creatures. The dragons could come and go, but people needed to be woven into the protective enchantments to gain access to the haven. It was a clever idea. He wasn’t surprised that Merlin had thought of such a thing, nor that Councillor Ares helped him design the enchantments needed. It wasn’t a surprise that Merlin felt it his purpose to care for these wayward creatures.

Merlin was obsessed with caring for stray creatures.

It was so easy to recall the time Merlin had found an injured kitten down one of the side streets in the lower town. He’d brought the little thing up to the castle with all due care and consideration for its broken paw. Arthur had been conscripted into helping keep the kitten calm as Merlin let his magic flow, let it sink down into the little thing, and knit the broken bones back into place. Later, the pair of them had spent an hour or more watching the kitten pounce on a string, falling around the place, eyes gleaming in triumph whenever it caught the damned thing. It was...not adorable, but something related to that adjective perhaps – if Arthur were pressed to admit such a thing, which he wasn’t. He’d never admit it aloud. Merlin would never have let him live it down.

Sir Tor fell silent when Merlin mumbled something into his pillow, hands fumbling for purchase against the bedclothes. The pair of them dashed across the room to pin his hands to the bed. It wouldn’t do to aggravate the lashes across his back.

“Don’t move; you’ll just make your back worse. Your healing magic won’t be complete for another two days or more, Your Highness.”

Sir Tor buried his hand in dark hair. Discomfort flashed through Arthur as he watched Merlin melt into a puddle, nuzzling, leaning into his touch with a sigh. He didn’t even seem to notice Arthur was there beside him. But that was fine. Of course, it was fine. He didn’t need Merlin to notice him or even acknowledge him. He’d lived his whole life without having Merlin notice he was there; why would he need such a thing now?

Arthur, after bringing a chair over to the bed and offering it to Sir Tor, returned to his chair by the fireplace. He rubbed his thumb across his scar, more than aware of Sir Tor glancing his way, but he wasn’t willing to close the distance again. He wasn’t willing to open up another conversation. Arthur gazed into the empty fireplace. His mind returned to the debacle at the council session and the whipping, wondering what sort of game Councillor Ares was playing, wondering what the hell Merlin was thinking when he’d stood against the crown before the council. He wasn’t worth the lash marks now decorating his back. He wasn’t worth the humiliation of being punished publically, being made an example, being almost vilified in the eyes of the King. He wasn’t worth any of it.

Leaving was necessary, Arthur knew in that moment. Merlin would be endangered even further, if he stayed. It was best to take the decision out of his hands. He knew Merlin would never let him leave, never let him back away, not when Merlin seemed to like having him around for reasons Arthur couldn’t even fathom. It was incomprehensible.

Arthur rose from his chair, and disappeared into the antechamber, his gaze flicking around to take in his few possessions. His possessions had grown since he’d entered the royal household. Merlin kept bringing ridiculous trinkets and baubles back to the castle, showing them and giving them to him with an enthusiasm that discomfited Arthur, which made him stare down at them in confusion. He wasn’t certain why he’d even kept them: the lot of them were hideous and served no purpose, but to sit there, hurting his eyes with their ugliness. He picked up one of the crudely carved dragon figurines with twisted limbs and a half-mauled face and heaved a longsuffering sigh. Some of the things Merlin had given him made so much more sense now, now that Arthur knew of his penchant for discovering magical creatures and raising them in some distant valley, their safe haven. He’d been bestowing parts of himself upon Arthur, and he hadn’t even known.

Cursing his master’s secrecy, Arthur fetched the burlap sack he’d purchased two years ago, within the first weeks of his employment in the household. It was the same one he’d intended to pack his things into back then. Of course, he’d have to cram a lot more possessions into one meagre sack this time.

Arthur was in the middle of rolling a tunic when he heard the sound of arguing, the one voice loud and irritated and the other muffled and strained. He stilled when he heard shuffling, tensed when the door rattled and turned when it slipped open. He dropped his tunic when he saw Merlin in the doorway, paler than usual and sweating, mouth twisting in a grimace of strain as he held himself up against the opened door.

“Don’t you dare,” Merlin said through clenched teeth. His eyes flickered gold for the first time since the whipping, his turbulent and unbridled magic lashing out and shredding the burlap sack in an instant. “None of the blame for what happened this evening lies upon your shoulders. I’m a grown man. I’m responsible for my own decisions and actions. None of this is your fault.” Before Arthur could open his mouth to say much of anything, Merlin pushed away from the door with a pained hiss and surged forward. Strong arms enveloped Arthur, staggering him with surprise, and his own hands rose to flutter without purpose, his frame tense and unsure. “Please don’t leave, not when I need you most. Please.”

Hesitantly, Arthur let his hands rest against naked arms as Merlin sagged against his chest. It seemed all the strength had gone out of Merlin now that he’d accomplished his mission and asked him not to leave. Arthur looked at the raven hair that threatened to tickle his chin and swallowed. It wasn’t a hug, not compared to the ones he’d experienced growing up, but it was an embrace of some sort. It was an embrace he wasn’t equipped to handle. His stomach liquefied as Merlin buried his face against his shoulder, weary, almost slipping back into his stupor. His heart hammered in his chest when Merlin hummed and the sound pulsed through his skin like pleasure. Glancing through the open door, Arthur spotted the look of resigned happiness that flickered across Sir Tor’s face and felt a pang of regret. But it wasn’t enough to make him push Merlin away, not enough to stop him from whispering, “I’m bringing you back to bed now, before you hurt yourself even more, you idiot.”

“Okay,” Merlin mumbled as Arthur stooped and draped him over his shoulder all over again. Again Sir Tor helped him lay Merlin down upon the mattress. Arthur sat down beside him when his master gripped his wrist and refused to let go, refused to part with him for even an instant. He looked to Sir Tor in helpless dismay, his frame tense, his stomach having dropped through the stone floor, but the man just shrugged his shoulders in return. He looked back down at Merlin as his master twitched closer, his breath ghosting soft and warm against his skin.

“Sire,” Arthur sighed as he squashed the pleasure that sang in his veins. He stamped down on the shiver that threatened to run down his spine. “What you did in there, in front of the King...what if doesn’t work? What if your actions change nothing?”

Merlin smiled up at Arthur, the expression slow to manifest and warm.

“Still worth it.”


	10. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished a chapter ahead of schedule, so you can have one ahead of schedule too. 
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think!

The council reconvened more than once as Merlin recovered from the whipping, and Arthur was forbidden from attending during his absence, barred from even walking down the corridor outside the council chamber. His brother was stationed elsewhere every time, so Arthur could discover nothing that way, could hear nothing of the shouts and arguments that he knew must have broken out again and again. No one else, however, was sentenced to a whipping. He supposed that was a good thing. One person being whipped on his behalf was one too many. It wasn’t right – no matter what Merlin said on the matter, and Merlin had plenty to say. Honestly, he wouldn’t shut up about his right to bear arms and self-defence, wouldn’t stop promising that he’d train him as well as he could. That Arthur wouldn’t recognise himself in the mirror when Merlin finished with him.

The thought thrilled Arthur even as it scared him. Anticipation curled hot in his stomach at the prospect of gripping a baselard in his hand and facing off against his master, whose lightning swiftness and precision could knock him to the ground in a heartbeat. He was certain that wielding a weapon would be nothing like learning to ride a horse; he just couldn’t imagine picking up the skill with as much relative ease. If there came a change to the law, Merlin was going to flatten him in an instant. Hopefully, he’d develop some skill soon enough. He’d hate for Merlin’s efforts to be wasted. Of course, Arthur also knew there was no point hoping for such a thing when it wasn’t assured that the law would change, that his right to defend himself would emerge.

“You know, I don’t need you fussing over me every other minute,” Merlin complained as Arthur now applied more paste to his back and bound him with fresh bandages that looked like the purest snow against the painful red of his healing skin. He’d been caring for Merlin and his lash marks since Gaius released him into his care. Of course, he wasn’t an expert. He wasn’t even an apprentice healer, but he’d learned some of the ropes since Merlin started taking him off gallivanting, roaming the countryside, tracking down insurgent Saxons and magical creatures posing a threat to Camelot and Mercia. Arthur had helped his master tend to wounded men after a skirmish more than once since his arm had mended. Merlin was an accomplished healer, his gentle demeanour soothing, his methods quick and efficient. “I’m capable of looking after myself.”

“Don’t be stupid. If that were the case, you wouldn’t have these lash marks striped across your back in the first place.” Arthur secured the bandages in place and surveyed his handiwork until he was satisfied with the result. Merlin was almost healed now, the swollen welts subsiding, the lacerations scabbing over, but Arthur knew it never hurt to be extra careful with a healing wound: infection could arise days after an event took place. “And shut up; we both know how much you love this.”

“Being whipped?” Merlin turned over, his movements quicker than before, but still measured. An amused smile stole across his mouth. He waggled his brows in a playful manner. “Or having your hands on me?”

“Shut up,” Arthur reiterated sharply, feeling his face flush hot. His stomach tightened as Merlin gazed up, the amusement making way for something soft and wanting, and the bed beneath him welcoming. He glanced towards the door automatically, seeking assurance that he had indeed locked it after he’d returned from fetching more paste and bandages from Gaius. A sigh caught in his throat when Merlin wrapped a hand around his wrist. A shiver ran down his spine as a thumb stroked across the pulse point. “Sire,” Arthur breathed after a brief pause, knowing he should stop this dangerous behaviour, but unwilling for the moment. “I didn’t mean it that way, and you know it.”

A sharp knock upon the door startled them apart.

Arthur turned away, his face flaming, his skin still tingling where Merlin had caressed him. Tendrils of desire thrummed through his veins. Arthur wasn’t certain what might have happened had someone not come along to interrupt them. He’d like to think he’d have pulled away, but he couldn’t be sure. He couldn’t be sure that he’d have stopped his master, stopped him from seducing him into a kiss or perhaps even an embrace, stopped him from shattering the resolutions Arthur had kept these last two years. Arthur hastened across the chamber and took a moment to calm himself before answering the door, standing just so, forbidding anyone from getting a glimpse of Merlin in his state of undress – not that they hadn’t seen him without a tunic before, but this was different.

This was private.

Councillor Ares smiled slow and secretive at him as soon as the door opened. Arthur debated shutting the door in his face, but knew the thought must have been blatant when a burst of magic shoved him back a step or two, allowing Councillor Ares to sweep inside in a swirl of scarlet robes.

“Your Highness,” the sorcerer greeted warmly, striding through the chamber as Merlin winced through the act of donning a tunic to preserve his modesty. A broad smile brightened Councillor Ares’ face as the distance closed between them. Arthur followed after, observing the purpose in his step, anxiety tightening his gut. He tensed when Councillor Ares rested a hand upon his master’s shoulder, the touch easy and familiar, as though he’d done it a thousand times before. Of course, having been Merlin’s mentor, he must have done so often in the past. “You’re looking much better than expected. Arthur must be taking good care of you. Of course, that isn’t much of a surprise; Ygraine Pendragon was just as nurturing and protective as Arthur is now.”

“Arthur, would you mind fetching someone wine –”

“No, no, don’t trouble yourselves. I can’t stay long. Actually,” said Councillor Ares as he reached into the voluminous sleeve of his robe, “I just came to let you both know the amendment was passed this evening. I’m sure the lower town will be rife with whispers before the morning.” A chuckle escaped him as he withdrew a small bundle no longer than his forearm and wrapped in fine cloth. A leather cord secured a folded square of parchment to the bundle. Councillor Ares offered the bundle to Arthur, his lingering smile turning hesitant and unsure for the first time ever since he’d known him. “This has been down in the vault since your birth or so Gaius tells me. A belated gift from your mother, with love.”

Arthur could have sworn he felt the foundations shake beneath his feet. He stared down at the small bundle until Merlin poked him in the side, the action prompting him to reach out and accept the offering. His hand trembled as he brushed his fingertips over the fine cloth and sighed at its softness. Councillor Ares chose that moment to make his escape, after asking for leave, bowing once toward Merlin in respect before vacating the chamber, leaving the two of them in peace. Merlin heaved himself up from bed with a grimace, catching his balance with a quick hand around Arthur’s elbow, poking his head into his business at once and asking, “Aren’t you going to open it?”

“Just give me a minute.”

Arthur released a longsuffering sigh as Merlin clung to him all the way across the chamber, using him as a crutch of some sort as his healing magic continued to sap his strength. He waited until Merlin settled in his chair, grimacing as he attempted to make himself comfortable, before claiming his own as anticipation tightened in his gut. Arthur looked down at the bundle in his hands. He couldn’t believe that something belonging to his mother lingered still or that Councillor Ares would deliver it to him. It had been miracle enough to learn that King Rodor was correct – that his father had indeed written an account of their triumph against Vortigern all those years ago and the librarian did squirrel such journals away for safekeeping. That something belonging to his mother lingered was inconceivable!

His hand trembling, Arthur slipped the parchment free of the cord binding it to the bundle. He unfolded the square and felt his heart skip a beat at the delicate script that followed across the parchment. His lungs seizing, he read:

_My dearest Arthur_ ,

_I fear I don’t have much longer, but I’ve known this end would come since the beginning, since your father first approached Nimueh. That fateful moment seems a lifetime ago now. I’ve almost forgotten what it was like to never have you with me. Having you with me has been a blessing, one that I would never give up, that I would never change for the world. I need you to know that. I need you to know how much I love you already, how much I ache to hold you in my arms for the first time. How much I ache to look at you._

_I don’t know if I’ll ever get the chance._

_Should the worst occur, this blade is my gift to you. Carnwennan belonged once to my mother, and to her mother, and to her mother before her, and now it belongs to you – just as it should. I know it will serve you as well as it served those that came before you._

_Trust in Carnwennan._

_Use it well._

_Your mother, with so much love._

Arthur stared down at the parchment in his grasp, wondering at the ache in his chest as Merlin said his name gently, curiously, worriedly, before he lifted his head at last. A moment passed before he could fold the parchment and set it aside. He rubbed at the ache hiding behind his sternum and looked back down at the bundle, frowning. Arthur had heard of Carnwennan before; his father mentioned it more than once in his accounts.

Several minutes of silence passed before Arthur undid the leather cord and unfolded the fine fabric, unsheathing the most exquisite baselard he’d ever seen a moment later. Merlin had an impressive collection. Carnwennan was something else entirely, the short blade almost singing as Arthur revealed her, the cross-guard and hilt and pommel the purest white. He heard the softest intake of breath from Merlin. Arthur looked up to see him staring at the baselard in blatant amazement.

“What?”

“Arthur, can’t you feel it?”

“Feel what?”

“The magic; I can feel it from here.” Merlin tilted his head. His staring intensified as flecks of gold sparked into existence in his eyes. “It feels ancient. Whoever...or whatever imbued that blade with magic had an immense well of power, almost as deep as mine. It might even have been a dragon. Would you mind if I have a look at it?”

Arthur shrugged and held the blade out. It wasn’t a surprise when Merlin summoned the baselard to his hand rather than heave himself out of his chair, the blade responding to his magic in an instant. It almost seemed eager. Merlin ran his fingertips along the flat side of the blade, his touch delicate, adoring, and respectful as his eyes flared with magic. He slipped into a trance of sorts.

“The magic imbued in this blade feels familiar, and yet I don’t think I’ve encountered this signature before.” Merlin hummed in thought. His brows knitted together. “Perhaps I’ve met their kin or something. I’ll ask Kilgharrah when I see him next. Would you like to come with me?”

“It wouldn’t involve crossing the border, or anything, would it?” Arthur narrowed his eyes at him in growing suspicion. “Because I don’t fancy seeing you whipped again for the suggestion.”

“No, no, the White Mountains are very much within the realm of Camelot and Mercia. I wouldn’t drag you across the border just to sate my own desires.” Merlin gave him a look so fierce, Arthur had to look away, his heart thumping in his throat as he recalled the moment at his master’s bedside. “So, do you want to come with me or not?”

“I don’t mind.”

“Excellent! We’ll wait for my sister to come home, though. She’d kill me for going without her.” Merlin chuckled and sent the blade back to Arthur with a brief gesture of his hand and Arthur snatched Carnwennan from the air and sheathed her, the faint singing fading away. Arthur stroked the intricate designs decorating the scabbard and glanced at his master, listening to him talk with familiar ease, his discomfort forgotten. “Ninianne adores the dragons; she can’t resist a chance to visit them. The dragons have been missing her something fierce, too, of course, and can’t wait to have her back for a visit. The lot of them have been pestering me about her return for the last year, I swear. You’d think such powerful creatures would have more patience when dealing with us mere mortals!”

“You’re just bitter that the dragons like her better than you.”

“I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”

Arthur suppressed a smile as Merlin feigned indignation and looked away, sniffing, with his nose in the air for dramatic effect. He was almost tempted to go over there, and kiss a smile back into place, but Arthur knew better than to give in to such an urge. Instead he looked down at Carnwennan and imagined the training, imagined the ache in his arms as Merlin pushed him to repeat a move over, and over, until his muscles memorised it. He imagined the sweat on his skin and the summer heat baking him to death. He imagined the kiss of cold water, imagined the rub of a towel across his flesh and shivered. He’d end up without a tunic, Arthur knew, the heat of summer forcing his hand. Arthur crossed his scarred arm across his chest at the thought and gripped his own shoulder, wondering how Merlin and his men could stand to be seen without their tunics in public, how they managed to keep a straight face when passing guards or squires gave them appraising glances.

Such thoughts plagued Arthur as the week continued and Merlin recovered finally, the healing process slowed by his frequent and wilful use of magic despite Gaius’ specific instructions. Much too soon for his liking, Merlin was dragging him down to the training grounds and handing him the wooden replica of a baselard with which he’d be trained in personal defence.

“Now,” said Merlin sagely, standing opposite him in a pair of black trousers and a navy tunic, “as I’m sure you know, we won’t be sparring yet. I’d just end up wiping the floor with you endlessly, and you wouldn’t learn a single thing. So, we’ll be working on a number of basic positions and manoeuvres instead. I will demonstrate each stance and you will follow, understood?”

“Of course, Sire,” said Arthur, tipping his head in acknowledgement. He ignored the flicker of disappointment that flashed across pale features at the formal address, as usual. It wasn’t his place to address Merlin by name, though it whispered across his mind every day, though it danced upon his tongue, just waiting for permission. It didn’t matter that a single glance from Merlin sent the men scarpering, leaving the pair of them alone on the training grounds. Arthur could feel the castle looming behind him and could almost feel the King’s immense disapproval radiating out from his throne, where he sat now to hear the commoners petitioning for aid in this matter, or that matter, none of which King Bayard cared for much.

Lately, it was Merlin being petitioned by the common people, his uncle having given him the role the previous winter to foster some experience for future ruling, after having Merlin stand beside him during such proceedings since he’d turned sixteen. The common people had adored him at once – not that they didn’t love him already, but there was something heartening about knowing their needs and quarrels were being listened to, and even welcomed by Merlin. More than once, Arthur found himself beaming with pride whenever Merlin dealt with the stickier issues with surprising wisdom and patience. He’d found himself wanting to drop to his knees and offer his allegiance, subpar though it seemed. He’d found himself referring to Camelot and Mercia as his master’s realm despite the reigning King still living. It wasn’t wise to think in such a manner, knowing he could slip up, but Merlin just made it so easy to envision him enthroned.

Right now, Arthur envisioned himself turning, fleeing from the training grounds before he could humiliate himself with his own uselessness. As though he knew what Arthur was thinking, Merlin smiled at him. It wasn’t the familiar and enormous grin that stretched from ear to ear, but a more private smile that threatened to make a mess of Arthur, that made him want to do something stupid and brave. Arthur wasn’t unaccustomed to seeing that smile directed his way, but now, now it made his hand tighten around the hilt of his wooden dagger. It made him almost breathless with the need to impress him somehow, and the thought mortified him.

It mortified him even more when Arthur mirrored the first stance a few moments later and Merlin raked him with his eyes. His gaze was sharp, calculating, assessing. Dark brows knitted together in a tight frown as Merlin circled him. Arthur felt his face flaming when a hand pressed against one thigh and then the other, pushing until he was forced to move, forced to correct his stance before he toppled under the unyielding pressure. Merlin corrected his arms then and had Arthur sustain the pose for a whole minute, before instructing him to loosen out and start again. Over and over, Arthur repeated and sustained the stance at his order, muscles beginning to quiver, until the stance was seamless and then it was time for the next one.

Arthur was aching long before Merlin was finished with him. His muscles protested each movement he made as Merlin led him through corridor after corridor, guiding him back to the royal chambers with a warm hand around his elbow to hold him up; his brain was comprised of nothing but exhausted mush. He was in such a state that he couldn’t even muster enough irritation to want to shove Merlin into a trough for putting him through this rubbish. An incoherent noise escaped him when the door opened to the hustle and bustle of smiling chambermaids filling the familiar bathtub with bucket after bucket of steaming water, the radiating heat of which made his muscles sob with need. He wanted so much to sink down into that water, but he knew it was meant for his master; the bathing tub was not a privilege allowed to the serving staff.

“What are you waiting for?”

“Huh?”

“That water won’t stay hot forever,” Merlin announced once the chambermaids vacated the chamber. Merlin tugged at his sweat-soaked tunic until Arthur raised his tired head and looked at him. “Hurry up and get in before it gets cold!”

“What?”

“Do I have to do everything?” Merlin shook his head and sighed and reached for Arthur, his hands seeking the leather belt around his waist. Arthur could do little more than push at his hand for a moment before giving up, going limp, letting himself be poked and prodded and manipulated until his clothes sat in a puddle around his feet. His muscles ached even more after having to climb out of his trousers and tunic; Arthur groaned low, the sound reverberating through him and Merlin gripped his elbow, his expression tightening, warning him not to make another sound. “Get in the water while we’re young, Arthur, please.”

Arthur responded with little more than a tired croak and a shake of his head. His brain was too sluggish to be surprised when Merlin slipped an arm around his middle as his eyes flared with vivid magic. A moment later Arthur was groaning, already throat-deep in steaming water, his muscles starting to sob with relief even as his feverish skin protested.

“I know,” Merlin murmured as he crouched next to the bathtub, folding his arms across the rim and letting his chin rest there, “the first few weeks are always the hardest to get through. I think you handled yourself well today, so please don’t let the pain and fatigue discourage you. You handled yourself better than I ever did. Just ask Lord Robert.”

Merlin smiled at him when Arthur rolled his head along the folded cloth cushioning the rim. He couldn’t speak even if he’d wanted to: his frame was a puddle, and his mind was worse, but he listened as Merlin opened up. He listened as Merlin spoke about throwing a tantrum in front of Lord Robert and storming away, tired and sore, infuriated and agonised that he couldn’t do anything right. That he was a weakling, that he was worthless without magic. Arthur wanted so much to reach out and pull him closer, bury his fingers in dark hair, and tell him that he was anything but worthless until Merlin saw sense. But he couldn’t do that. The one thing Arthur found he could do was touch his hand – just a single caress – and the small smile that had faded as Merlin spoke returned to full strength at the touch. Arthur closed his eyes and turned his face away as Merlin turned his hand over, letting him lock their fingers together, letting himself believe for a moment that he could have this.

That he could have Merlin.

Arthur stayed in the bathtub until the water grew tepid and rose to his feet unsteadily, his muscles more tired than he could ever remember them being before. He still ached in places he’d never known he had muscles to begin with! Merlin helped him out of the bathtub, towel ready, his arms and magic prepared to catch him if Arthur slipped even once. Arthur let himself lean against him. He let himself be helped into the antechamber. He hadn’t the energy to do anything but stand there, groaning and sighing as Merlin rubbed the towel over him with the same care that Arthur would have granted him. It wasn’t a surprise when Merlin pushed him down upon the waiting bed some moments later, and brought the covers up to cover him. It wasn’t a surprise when Merlin let himself linger, or when he ran a hand through the damp locks of Arthur’s hair, and Arthur couldn’t stop himself from leaning into the touch. The callus-roughened skin felt so damned good against his. He wanted to feel it everywhere: on his thighs; along his spine; gripping his hips; even...even upon the swell of his arse and that thought alone made his bath-warmed face burn hotter than the sun at its apex.

It was both a relief and a disappointment when Merlin stepped back with a sad smile tainted with more regrets than Arthur could count. Maybe more regrets than he _wanted_ to count. Arthur didn’t watch Merlin leave. He didn’t squeeze his eyes shut when the door thudded closed. He didn’t catch a sob in his throat and strangle it to death. Arthur heaved himself onto his stomach with a grunt instead and shouted a curse into his pillow, knowing without an ounce of doubt that he was doomed. He’d been doomed from the beginning; nothing in his damned life could ever go according to plan.

The following week followed the same pattern. Each late afternoon and evening started with the training, with his frame aching so much he wanted to weep, and ended with Merlin lingering in the antechamber longer and longer with each passing day, taking a moment here and there to brush a lock of hair out of his face or to caress his throat with a gentle thumb as his hand rested upon Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur never stopped him. He should have. He knew he should have, but he could never make himself do it. He could never do more than whisper the formal address, closing his eyes and leaning into each touch even as he hated himself for this weakness. Being touched just felt so incredible, so wonderful and terrible; it made him feel so alive. He loathed and loved it in equal measure.

When it came to the actual training, Merlin seemed pleased with the efforts he continued to make. Merlin made sure to praise him whenever Arthur performed a stance with particular aplomb. Just hearing such praise made Arthur swell with embarrassed pride. It made him try harder, even when the rest of him wanted to collapse into bed and sleep until Merlin was crowned King at last. Those were the best moments. He hated messing up, but he was just glad there was no one but Merlin around to see him make mistake after mistake, no one to see him fail and gossip with their friends about his ineptitude. No one was there to see him want to throw the wooden dagger at Merlin’s head in frustration or shove him into a ditch.

“Harder, Arthur,” Merlin exclaimed for the umpteenth time that evening, his frustration rising as clear as the sun each morning. His raven hair was a mess from having run his hands through it so often in the last twenty minutes. “Remember, you’re trying to stab someone, not poke them! You need to put your weight into it!”

“I’m trying!”

“Then you’re not trying hard enough! Do it again!”

“No,” Arthur answered at once, a well of rage igniting inside him as his face grew wild with anger. He threw the wooden baselard down upon the ground with temper. “No, I won’t. This is pointless. Sire, you’re wasting your time with me; I can’t do this!”

“Why?” Merlin looked at him as though he’d grown a second head and sprouted wings. Honestly, he seemed more surprised that Arthur was giving up than he was to hear him so enraged. “Why can’t you? You were doing fine earlier.”

“Sire, I don’t _want_ to be a man that can kill without blinking.” Despite the calming deep breaths he forced himself to take, Arthur could feel the crack in his voice. Bile rose inside him as he remembered the day he’d struck that bandit over the head with his makeshift club, tearing skin and shattering bone, scattering brain matter across the undergrowth. If he’d been gifted with magic, Arthur was sure the violent surge of his emotions would have forced the foundations of the castle looming behind him to tremble. He remembered the sinking feeling in his limbs once the adrenaline had worn off and he’d stumbled away, disappearing into the bushes and heaving the burning contents of his stomach up through his mouth. He remembered the tears that spilled down his face when he’d visited his sister, remembered the explanation bubbling up, remembered her whispering that it was okay, that he’d done what he had to. “I _can’t_. Please don’t force me.”

“Do you think me some mindless killer? Is that the sort of man you think I am? Is that the sort of man you think we all are? I was fourteen the first time I killed someone.” Merlin looked away, a muscle in his neck twitching as his jaw clenched. He looked as though he were in physical pain. His nostrils flared as he took a deep breath and Arthur regretted what he’d said for a moment. “I was defending my mother, defending her from a bandit twice her damned size. I hit him with a blast of magic, the anger in my veins boiling, and his whole frame exploded. Pieces of him went everywhere. I saw his blood staining my hands for months. His brain matter appeared in my stew. Nightmares made it impossible to get decent sleep. Killing him drove me to the brink of madness, Arthur, and I had to make a choice: distance myself from what I’d done or lose myself in it. What should I have done instead?”

“Sire, I don’t think you’re like that –”

“Don’t you?” Merlin looked at him hard. His eyes flashed in the setting sun. “What makes me so different to the others that you condemn with your refusal? What makes being like them so terrible? Your own brother has killed men without pausing to think because he had to. I’ve killed more men than I can ever count and I don’t remember half of their faces anymore. I can’t. I can’t remember. I can’t let myself think about whether this man is a bandit in order to feed his starving children or whether that man is one because his wife is sick and needs gold to hire a good physician to heal her. I can’t take a moment to think about any of that. A single moment of hesitation could get me or you or someone else killed in an instant!”

“Sire –”

“But if you want to stop, then fine. We’ll stop.” Pale hands flailed around for a moment as his emotions crested. “I would never force you to do something you don’t want to do; I’m not a monster.”

“Sire,” Arthur croaked again as Merlin strode past him with enough force to send him staggering to the side, his magic swelling around him like a storm. Dark clouds brewed overhead. A powerful wind manifested. Arthur hastened after Merlin and said his name. It wasn’t a shout or a bellow, but just loud enough to make Merlin pause. Arthur seized his wrist hard and spun him around with vigour, his chest starting to heave as adrenaline spiked through him. “I know you’re not a monster, Merlin. I never thought you were. This wasn’t about becoming a man like you.”

“Then what the hell is this about?”

“Becoming my father,” Arthur confessed despite the growing uncomfortable weight in his stomach. His shoulders tensed as Merlin stared at him long and hard. The wind whipped around them. It threatened to rob him of his breath as the leather coat Merlin wore flared and billowed. Nerves played havoc with his voice. “I’ve heard people cursing my father, cursing his line, cursing the atrocities he committed because of me. What happens if all those people are right and the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree? What happens when I lose someone I love and I succumb to the same madness that warped him? What if I’m tempting fate by learning how to wield a blade?”

“Fate would have us believe we don’t have a choice in creating our future,” snapped his master, his hard gaze growing harder, sharper, darker as the clouds overhead rumbled with thunder, “but we do. Your father made a choice and he made the wrong one. You have the power to make a better one, Arthur, as do we all when our time comes. Just make sure you do. Now, hurry up, because the heavens are going to open up in a minute or two.”

Merlin pulled his hand free and snared Arthur, curling his fingers around _his_ wrist instead. Arthur felt his blood jump at the touch. There was no time to pull away, no time to remind himself that someone could see, because Merlin was hauling him towards the castle in a matter of moments. Their pace picked up when they neared the steps leading into the back of the castle, their boots slipping and sliding upon the flagstones as the clouds ripped open above them. The rain lashed at them. The wind howled. And Arthur, his muscles aching and his frustration still lingering, wanted nothing more than to be shoved into the nearest alcove and kissed stupid when Merlin glanced over his shoulder, hard eyes flecked with gold. He wanted the anger, the danger, the sharp tang of blood on his tongue as Merlin took advantage, but he knew it wasn’t possible. It wasn’t possible to feel demanding hands tearing his belt away, tearing his laces open and shoving his trousers down around his knees. It wasn’t possible to feel his scalp searing as Merlin gripped his hair hard or feel teeth biting at the base of his throat. But just the thought of Merlin daring to do so made him stumble.

Merlin didn’t leave him go as the pair of them hastened through corridor after corridor, mounted staircase after staircase, and part of Arthur hoped he never would.

 

 


	11. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will continue to be slow while I'm in college, but I'm going to be working on the fic as often as I can manage. I hope the waiting won't bother people too much...
> 
> Anyway, a big thank you to anyone who commented or gave kudos to the fic!
> 
> As always, feel free to let me know what you think!

Anticipation curled hot in his stomach. Hengroen pranced back a few steps in response, ears twitching, tail swishing, but Arthur calmed him with a gentle stroke along his neck. His own mount still and calm as ever, Merlin smiled beside him. The pair of them shared a brief glance. Arthur ignored the desire and affection that pulsed through his veins and looked back out across the bay, watching as a proud and majestic ship cut through the waves and docked at the Port of Gedref. Merlin sat up straighter as the men in the distance hastened to secure the Prydwen to the moorings. Arthur struggled to stamp down on his nerves as the gangway made an appearance, stretching now between the dock and the ship, allowing an older woman and a young girl of about ten summers to step out into the light.

Arthur could see the relation at once. He could see the softness of his master’s private smile and the silk of his hair, the pallor of his skin. Lady Hunith was a short woman with a proud bearing, her shoulders back and her chin up, looking as though she could conquer the world with a mere smile. Maybe she could. Arthur looked askance at her son and swallowed a smile of his own. Maybe she could indeed. Lady Hunith wore her hair loose, her brown locks kept away from her face with a blue silken neckerchief. Her travelling clothes weren’t as fine as some of the ones he’d seen other noblewomen wear, but their tailoring still elevated her above the commoners working the docks.

Beside her, young Ninianne was a bundle of excitement and enthusiasm that endeared her to Arthur in an instant. Her hair glowed like molten copper in the sunlight. Blatant happiness exploded across her youthful face as Ninianne spotted Merlin and shouted his name, bolting down the gangway before her mother quite knew what was happening, her travelling boots pounding upon the strong wood. She tripped and stumbled twice in her progression across the docks before hurtling into her brother, the force almost knocking him on his arse, one hand grabbing onto Arthur for balance and his other arm crushing Ninianne close. Ninianne tipped her head back and beamed up, jade eyes bright with happiness at the sight of Merlin and Merlin beamed back down at her, running his gloved hand over the top of her head. Up close now, Arthur could see the freckles fanning across her button nose. She didn’t look as much like Merlin as her mother, but that made sense: she was also the offspring of Sir Lamorak.

The Knight in question was emerging now from the ship, coming to join his wife and making an offer of his arm. Her hand wrapped around his elbow, Lady Hunith and Sir Lamorak disembarked together, sharing a private smile before redirecting their attention to the people waiting for them. Servants bustled in their wake.

“Just look at you! I can’t believe how much you’ve grown! I’m sure you’ll be taller than me soon enough.” Merlin took a step away, taking a moment to let his gaze rove over his sister, as though committing her to memory, as though she might leave again at any moment. His gloved hands settled on her shoulders and squeezed for a moment before letting go. “Arthur, this is my sister, Ninianne.”

Arthur bowed at once, though it was a shallow one, not as deep as the one saved for Merlin in public or for the King. Though it was strange to address a child in such a manner, he murmured the required formal address. It was a surprise when Ninianne thrust her hand out and smiled expectantly, offering her arm the way he’d seen Merlin do on occasion as a mark of respect and welcome. Arthur looked at his master, waiting for leave, before reaching out and grasping her slender arm to return the offer.

What started as a cheerful greeting ended on a strangled shout of horror as her small hand clamped around his forearm. Her jade eyes turned gold as her face twisted in pain. Colour drained from her face an instant before Ninianne wrenched herself away from Arthur, sweat beading, and her frame shaking as Arthur retreated in fear, wondering what the hell he could have done to cause that. However, the man at his side paid no attention to Arthur, and focused instead upon Ninianne.

“You said you’d practice!”

“I did practice,” Ninianne croaked and her hand rose to cover her mouth. Her little frame convulsed for a minute or two before the blatant urge to vomit subsided. Tears welled in an instant. “I was doing a lot better, I swear.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Merlin murmured as he drew Ninianne into yet another embrace, this one even tighter and warmer than the last. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Just tell me what you saw. It must have been awful. I’ve never seen you react like that before.”

“It was the worst thing I’ve ever seen.” Ninianne shuddered and looked over at Arthur, her gaze sorrowful and sympathetic. Her tears spilled and she sniffled. “I saw a child tumbling out of a wardrobe. He was terrified. He was sobbing, slipping and falling in a puddle of blood and the King was there, standing over a corpse without a head. King Bayard was going to kill the child too, but he stopped at the last minute and dropped his sword in disgust before hauling the wailing child into his arms. He tossed him out on the street!”

Arthur retreated another step, paling, knowing he’d never spoken a word of what the King told him after the poisoning. He’d never mentioned that King Bayard found him in the wardrobe. He looked down at his arm as though it had betrayed him. How could she have known about that? How could she have seen things that Arthur couldn’t even remember? What sort of magic could let a person see such secrets? Arthur, remembering the moments when the lines between master and servant started blurring, and paled even further, aware that his world could have crumbled into dust at a single touch. Greeting Ninianne could have sent him to the gallows!

Ninianne still clung to Merlin when Arthur looked at her. She looked a little better after confessing what she’d seen. Merlin murmured soothing nonsense as he stroked his gloved hand over her hair again and again. Arthur could almost see the comforting swell of magic enveloping the pair as Sir Lamorak and Lady Hunith closed the distance, the one ensuring Ninianne was alright and the other approaching Arthur, a welcoming smile on her face. Seeing that smile made him stand straighter, made him fumble to make himself presentable, made him feel like the child he’d once been. He’d spent weeks hoping Lady Hunith would like him and worrying, fearing that she’d hate him on sight for being the reason her first love was dead. But it was obvious his fears were unfounded.

“Arthur,” said Lady Hunith gently, seizing him in a hug before Arthur could so much as bow, her arms winding around him with familiar strength. Arthur tensed and then melted into the embrace. Though he’d never lacked a hug growing up, he’d often wondered what it would be like to hug a mother, he’d wondered ever since he was a boy, watching other children getting squashed with affection and watching them squash their mothers in return. He found it wasn’t unpleasant at all. A moment passed before Lady Hunith withdrew, bestowing a warm and somewhat teasing smile upon him. It reminded him so much of Merlin that he couldn’t breathe for a moment. “I’m so glad to meet you at last. I’ve heard you’re a hero.”

“No, not true at all. I don’t know where you heard that.”

“No?” Lady Hunith cocked her head and eyed him. Arthur knew at once that he faced a bird of prey, one that seemed beautiful at first glance, but armed with talons sharp enough to skewer a man. “Because Merlin couldn’t shut up about how brave you were in his letters. How you risked your own life to save his without even pausing, without blinking, without thinking that someone else could intervene and not risk their neck in the process. It must be true, if you’re attempting to convince me otherwise. I’ve never known a good man to brag about his deeds. Plus...my son isn’t a liar.” Lady Hunith smiled. “He never has been. He’d rather obfuscate until the cows come home than lie outright to or about someone he admires or respects so much.”

His heart skipping, Arthur swallowed a nervous chuckle and offered her a strained smile, fearing whatever Merlin might have told Lady Hunith about him. Fearing how much she knew of their nebulous relationship. He looked askance, only to see Merlin doing the same, a somewhat concerned expression flicking across his face. The smile he gave Merlin was much more genuine – one might have even considered it soothing – and Arthur hoped he wouldn’t come over, that he wouldn’t confirm whatever suspicions were dwelling inside his mother’s head without meaning to. There was no doubt in his mind that Lady Hunith was suspicious; it became even more apparent when she glanced between the two of them and offered an even broader smile, her eyes twinkling, before turning to greet her son with a tight hug and receive an enthusiastic kiss upon her cheek.

Arthur bowed his head as Merlin lost himself in greeting his mother, his concern making way for a grin that stretched from ear to ear. He hoped Merlin would keep his mouth shut for once, instead of babbling, babbling their secrets just because he was so pleased to see his mother.

Not that he could blame Merlin.

Who wouldn’t be so pleased to see their mother after four long years of such insufferable distance? Arthur knew he couldn’t have coped with living in the castle, if he didn’t make time to visit his sister, his brother, and Tom at home. Merlin was more than willing to accommodate his needs once he’d confessed his concerns about being so distant from them and insisted that he take more days off here and there, giving him that private smile when Arthur gaped at him in surprise at the increased allowance. He’d asked once whether Merlin would like to come, and he’d seen the unspoken desire, but Merlin had declined politely, claiming it would just make the others uncomfortable in their own home.

Arthur could remember that moment with perfect ease. He’d been standing behind his chair, watching Merlin oil his longbow, looking tired and more miserable than he’d ever seen him as Arthur tucked the decorative box of tarts and other delicious morsels from the kitchens under his arm – a small gift Merlin insisted that he bring home to the others. He wasn’t certain what had made Merlin so miserable. All he’d known was that he hated to see Merlin like that. He’d wanted to cheer him up, to encourage a smile. Maybe even a burst of laughter. Tom could have a wicked sense of humour, the kind that could make a man laugh no matter how leaden his heart felt. He’d wanted that for Merlin. He’d wanted it so much that he’d stepped around the chair, stepped closer, and touched his shoulder. Just the barest graze of his fingertips. Just enough to make him look up. And he’d just...asked. He’d asked in that hesitant voice, the one that made him stumble and humiliated him more often than he was willing to acknowledge, the one he knew Merlin found so endearing, though he’d never admit it. He’d seen the despair vanish for a moment. He’d seen the strong wish to come with him. He’d almost smiled in delight before Merlin looked away, the despair returning, murmuring, “No, Arthur, but thank you for the offer. I can’t imagine it would be comfortable to have me in their house. Go on now, and don’t worry about me; I’ll be fine without you for an evening.”

Just remembering the moment made his chest ache behind his sternum. It made his stomach tight and his shoulders tense, made him want to go back to that moment and change the past. It made him want to erase his understanding, his willingness to let the matter drop, to let Merlin suffer alone in his absence. But he couldn’t change the past. He could do nothing but attempt to make the future better, attempt to _be_ better. Arthur just wasn’t certain how to do that yet. But he’d figure it out. He had to.

“Arthur, are you ready?”

The familiar voice coaxed his attention back to the present and Arthur blinked to clear his thoughts. He looked up at his master, sitting astride his horse with Ninianne settled in front of him – just in case she fell asleep after their long journey, which was about to get even longer. Arthur forced a smile. He turned and mounted Hengroen without pause, aware now that the group had been waiting, waiting for him to return to the present instead of getting lost in his thoughts of past and future. He flicked his attention around the rest of the group, taking note, observing how the formation had changed since Lady Hunith and her family joined their number; mages that had encircled Merlin and Arthur now encircled his family, and a selection of guardsmen encircled them. Arthur pulled one side of the reins and Hengroen turned at his silent command. A snap of the reins and a squeeze of his ankles started a nice canter, and Merlin followed suit with a warm chuckle, the pair of them moving to the head of the group. The cart loaded down with personal belongings and servants would take up the rear, escorted by another few guardsmen.

It had taken three nights to reach the Port of Gedref. He’d been allowed to attend his master under special conditions: Arthur was not permitted to wield a baselard under any circumstance, while straddling the border between Camelot and Nemeth. Merlin was also to report to the King nightly, using water and a simple enchantment to communicate.

Merlin had done as he’d been ordered by the King, but he hadn’t been pleased. He hadn’t been pleased to know the King didn’t trust him as much as he used to, didn’t trust him to prevent Arthur from escaping. Not that Arthur had planned to escape in the first place. But the King was paranoid to an extreme and Arthur knew Merlin knew that – even if neither of them could admit the truth aloud. So Merlin had obeyed the order, even going so far as to prove Arthur was still present at night by hauling him into view, his hand fisting the back of his tunic so hard that the material threatened to rip. Being presented to King Bayard left him trembling each time. His master’s presence at his side did little to combat the sudden ache of faded and non-existent bruises or the remembered pressure wrapped around his throat.

Later, those long nights were spent at opposite sides of a campfire, Arthur and Merlin keeping watch as the guardsmen and mages got some sleep, before the pair settled down on the ground just a little too close to the campfire to be quite comfortable after a guardsman and mage came to relieve them from the watch. Arthur and Merlin had shared strained smiles before one or the other of them drifted to sleep at last.

Arthur knew the return to Camelot wouldn’t be so quick. He made a quick calculation in his head as the group left the Port of Gedref. He reckoned it would take at least five nights to return home at a good pace, knowing the group would need to take more frequent breaks to ensure the horses pulling the cart weren’t overworked and to ensure the ladies received enough rest. It may even take a full week. Arthur hoped so. He wasn’t keen on having King Bayard breathing down the back of his neck so soon – not if he could help it.

Honestly, spending some time away from the castle was a blessing. Arthur loved getting the chance to immerse himself in the relaxed atmosphere of the group, confident that if there were any trouble, the lot of them would emerge almost unscathed. There were enough mages present to make it so. Only those trained in martial magic could be considered a mage and Camelot and Mercia had a fine stock of them. Merlin was considered the most acclaimed mage in the united realms – and perhaps the most acclaimed mage in the whole of Albion. Councillor Ares and Gaius seemed to believe as much. It wouldn’t have surprised Arthur in the slightest. He’d witnessed more than one Saxon turn and flee at the sight of a Merlin wielding magic, and he’d seen Merlin let them go, confident that word would spread that Camelot and Mercia were protected.

Only the most foolish and most determined men came to run amuck in the realm.

Unfortunately, there were plenty of those kinds around.

Even so, the trek back to Camelot passed almost without incident. Of course, the one incident that did occur was painful and frightening: the sudden appearance of a snake had spooked Hengroen and Arthur was thrown from the saddle, the air knocked out of his lungs so hard he saw stars for a minute. He’d heard Hengroen panicking and rearing away, hooves thundering against the forest floor, before Merlin ordered Arthur not to move a single muscle in a voice both dangerous and calm. That was the moment when he’d felt something shift against his lower leg and felt an enraged hiss reverberate up through his skin. He’d tensed at once, his gaze flicking towards his master, watching Merlin stalk forward with sword in hand and magic at the ready, eyes burning with gold.

Merlin had been a split second faster than the snake, his magic yanking the black and furious serpent away before it could sink its fangs into Arthur, and then he’d been right there between serpent and man as the large snake came after Arthur all over again. Arthur had scrambled back as fast as he could damned well move, his heart in his mouth and the back of his head pounding after hitting the ground. He’d resisted the urge to vomit as Merlin swung his blade, steel gleaming, arc dangerous, and severed the head. The headless corpse had thrashed for a minute and the disembodied head had snapped and snapped and snapped – as though it were living still. Until it had stilled at last. Merlin had been upon Arthur an instant later, his hands frantic and his face tight with panic, and Arthur had gone limp, letting his master fuss over the knock to the back of his head in order to help Merlin calm down.

He’d worn a bandage for three days just to make Merlin feel better.

Now, however, Arthur insisted on taking the damned thing off as the pair of them burst through the door leading into the royal chambers. He’d recovered from the concussion some time ago, but Merlin wouldn’t let the matter drop. Merlin wouldn’t relax. He’d continued to hover around Arthur whenever the group stopped to rest. He’d continued to give him anxious glances whenever Arthur was on horseback. It was as though he’d expected Arthur to drop dead the moment Merlin turned his attention elsewhere. Arthur almost wanted to scream at him in frustration.

“Sire, I’m fine!” Arthur waved the spotless bandage at him. He wasn’t surprised when Merlin cast a dubious glance at it and folded his arms in a familiar show of stubbornness. “The bandage is as clean as I said it would be when you put it on this morning. You can stop fussing now. I’m not going to die the minute you turn your back!”

“I’m allowed to be concerned about your welfare!” Merlin closed the distance and pulled the bandage from his grasp. He took a moment to let his gaze slide over the pristine length of it before tossing it aside as though it no longer mattered. Merlin hesitated for a moment before gripping his shoulder, letting his thumb graze the base of his throat just as he would after training Arthur, after letting him luxuriate in the bathtub. The touch was warm and gentle, and Arthur felt his frustration dissipating. It threatened to make the weariness of his travels catch up with him. His eyes almost fluttered closed at the familiar touch. “I’m _supposed_ to be concerned about your welfare. Part of my job, remember?”

A semi-comprehensible noise escaped Arthur, who tipped his head back and shivered as that gentle thumb continued to sweep, moving higher as Merlin shifted his hand just so. It took a moment to muster his voice, murmuring, “I wasn’t aware you considered loving me your job.”

“Heaven knows why I do,” Merlin teased gently, his thumb coming to press against the apple as Arthur couldn’t help but swallow. Merlin gave him a slow smile as the apple bobbed. It was reflex to reach out and grasp Merlin for balance as his knees threatened to buckle. “You can’t stop complaining, and the slightest little thing can set off a strop, and you’re such a damned tease that I want to smash things all the damned time. I should put you in the stocks for reducing me to this.”

An awkward laugh escaped Arthur, and he was more than aware of the embarrassed heat spreading down his neck. He’d never been accused of reducing a man to the base of his desires before. He wasn’t sure it was true either. If anything, Arthur felt as though he’d been the one reduced to nothing but his loins the moment Merlin touched him. His heart thumped in his chest as Merlin walked him back a step, and then another, until the writing desk pressed against his lower back. Though he knew so much better, Arthur allowed himself to luxuriate in the press of his master, allowed himself to wonder what it might be like to be on the right side of the law, to be able to love whoever he wanted without fear of repercussions as other men could. Merlin didn’t kiss him. He didn’t dare. But Arthur could tell he wanted to, could feel it in the press of his forehead against his as Merlin drew in a sharp, shaking breath that Arthur repeated a moment later. He let his eyes drift closed. He released a soft sigh when Merlin slid his hand up, up, up, into his hair.

“Please don’t ask me not to be concerned about you. I can’t help it.”

“Okay.” Arthur couldn’t nod without brushing their noses together, so he settled for squeezing the forearm in his grasp. He almost groaned when the muscles twitched beneath his hand. It took a moment to refocus on the matter at hand. “Just don’t fuss so much. I’m a grown man. I think I can handle a knock to the head once in a while.”

“You think? That sounds dangerous.”

“ _This_ is dangerous. But it doesn’t seem to stop you.” Arthur heard his low hum of agreement and shuddered. The sound reverberated through his skin and ignited the nerves throughout his frame. Withdrawing was imperative now, he knew, or something disastrous would happen between them. Rough fingertips dragged across his scalp. His muted groan of pleasure escaped before Arthur could even _think_ of squashing it. “Sire,” he breathed when Merlin let his other hand drop to his hip, squeezing just so, prompting Arthur to squirm in an attempt to wriggle free. Merlin released him at once. He’d never been one to hold a man captive. Arthur stumbled clear of his master, his lower back aching, his heart attempting to rip out through his chest at how reckless he’d let himself be with Merlin.

His knees wobbled.

Arthur didn’t let that stop him as he hastened towards the antechamber, cursing himself and cursing his master, cursing King Bayard and the other notable warriors that helped to ruin his life and his future. Merlin sighed behind him a moment before Arthur slammed the door shut in his wake. He didn’t leave the antechamber again until Merlin summoned him an hour later, requesting his attendance, and Arthur managed to remain calm as he helped his master with his bathing. Neither of them acknowledged what had happened between them earlier, but it was obvious that neither of them could stop thinking, stop remembering, or stop wishing. Arthur wasn’t certain how he survived washing Merlin or dressing him or even his own bathing, after Merlin supplied him with fresh and streaming water with a wave of his hand and a glow of gold in his eyes.

Nor was he certain where the pair of them were going until Merlin rapped on a door a floor below and Arthur heard the rapid patter of small feet a moment before the door swung open to reveal Ninianne.

Arthur wasn’t prepared for the gloved hand that clutched his and hauled him inside or the beaming grin that lit up her whole face. It seemed she’d quite forgotten the terror he’d put her through the last time she’d touched him.

“Arthur,” Ninianne exclaimed excitedly, dragging him over to the chairs gathered around the cold fireplace. Lady Hunith and Sir Lamorak were seated already; the pair of them sat together, sat close enough to touch a hand or wrist whenever either of them wished. It was a closeness that Arthur envied at once. He knew he’d never have that without putting everything he cared for at risk. “I’m so glad you’re here! The kitchens sent up an ocean of tarts to welcome us home and we need your help; Merlin said you eat like a pig in his letters!”

Sir Lamorak choked on his tart.

Lady Hunith covered her mouth.

Arthur turned his head to level a look at his master, who swallowed and gave him a smile that attempted to be innocent and charming. He narrowed his eyes at Merlin and wondered what on earth attracted him in the first place. It wasn’t his manners – that much was obvious.

“Was that supposed to be a secret? Oops.” Ninianne dropped into her chair and let out a bright peal of laughter, her face crinkling up with her good humour. She slapped her leg. She looked up at Merlin through her laughter. “Reminds me of that time I blabbed about you and Sir Tor over dinner. Councillor Ares’ face went so red! Lord Robert didn’t even know where to look! Do you remember?”

“Remember? How could I ever forget? You humiliated us both!” Merlin avoided looking at Arthur, who stared at him in muted shock. He couldn’t help but sink down into the chair that sat behind him. He wasn’t certain what upset him more: that Merlin and Sir Tor were lovers once upon a time – despite Merlin claiming he wasn’t in love with Sir Tor at all – or that Merlin couldn’t bear to look at him after the truth was revealed. Even so, Merlin settled down beside him. Arthur could almost feel the heat of the discomfort and embarrassment rolling off him in thick waves. “Your Hindsight is annoying. We weren’t even planning to tell his parents and you took that choice out of our hands because you can’t keep anything to yourself. Lord Robert must have been devastated when we stopped courting each other; I bet he had the whole wedding planned down to even the most miniscule details!”

Arthur lowered his gaze and stared down at his hands. He couldn’t quell the tightness of his chest or the urge to squirm in place at the thought of Merlin and Sir Tor in bed with each other, at the thought of them giving each other courting gifts. The tightness in his chest remained with him until Merlin touched his shoulder, his hand a brand felt even through his tunic, and offered him a plate of tarts that looked too delicious for words to describe.

Arthur chose the plum one after a long moment of hesitation. He didn’t want anyone to think Merlin was right. That he was a pig. Because he wasn’t. It wasn’t his fault the food from the kitchens was so damned delicious that he couldn’t stop himself from taking second or third helpings sometimes. Honestly, Merlin ate almost all the time, but he was a powerful sorcerer, and fuelling both his limbs and magic required the consumption of large amounts of food. Merlin never gained an ounce of fat. It was ridiculous and unfair, and Arthur hated it with a burning passion.

“So, tell me about your trip,” said Merlin after a minute or so of somewhat uncomfortable silence. There hadn’t been much conversation about the trip during the trek back to Camelot. Lady Hunith had spent most of their down-time sleeping, and Ninianne would do the same, but Sir Lamorak had shared his time between joking around with the men and reporting to Merlin about the ambassadorial visits across the continent. Merlin had been delighted to hear about the various monarchs willing to open trade routes with Camelot and Mercia...and much less so to hear about the few monarchs flirting with the notion of a royal wedding, though he’d admitted that his uncle would be pleased to hear it. King Bayard made a point of suggesting a potential match every once in a while, testing the water, and Arthur often wanted to strangle him with his belt whenever he did so. He wanted to make him regret wanting to sell Merlin into unwanted marriage. “Did you have fun? What cities did you visit?”

“It was amazing!” Ninianne swallowed a mouthful of tart and beamed at Merlin. Her face glowed like a fireplace in winter. “We visited enough cities to last a lifetime! Papa, what was the name of that place you said was an Eastern Rome again?”

“It was Antioch.” Sir Lamorak chuckled and ran a gloved hand over Ninianne’s hair in a long and loving sweep. The faintest hints of copper remained in his own hair – just enough to show where Ninianne inherited hers from. But his eyes were as dark as black ink and his skin wasn’t bronze like that of his daughter, but deeper, richer, and much more natural. Arthur had realised his foreign lineage days ago when he’d caught a glimpse of a strange necklace adorned with a six-pointed star. He’d never seen the like before. But even a blind man could have seen the affection written in each stroke of his hand. It was clear that Ninianne was beyond precious to Sir Lamorak. “I don’t know why you keep forgetting, since we spent the most time there. You seem to remember everything else without a bother.”

“Anyway,” said Ninianne, waving a dismissive hand. Her excitement swelled all over again as she spoke. She waved her tart around and dropped crumbs all over the floor without a care in the world. “Antioch was my favourite place! It was so colourful there, and we went to the hippodrome. We watched a chariot race. It was so exciting! I wish we could have them here!”

“I don’t.” Lady Hunith turned the purest green at the thought. She looked across at Merlin. “Darling, it was dreadful. The wheel of one chariot shattered and the racer was trampled under the horses of another racer. I don’t think I could stomach seeing that happen to any of the young men here, but especially not to one of mine. I don’t much fancy the thought of seeing one of my sons dead over something as stupid and reckless as chariot-racing!”

“Remind me again how many sons you think you have?”

“Two, but you know what I’m like.” Lady Hunith laughed and spent a long moment looking at Arthur, who buried himself in eating his plum tart to escape the private smile she directed at him without an ounce of hesitation. Her smile spoke louder than words ever could and he knew it wouldn’t do to panic in front of her. Then she looked at Merlin and her smile broadened further, livening up her entire face, and making her seem a decade younger. “I’m hoping that number will rise soon enough. Darling, you know how much I’d love to see you married to some nice young man or woman.”

“Mother, I’m more than aware of how much you want to see me married. You don’t need to remind me of _that_ in the least.” Merlin huffed in annoyance beside him and rubbed at his temple, as though he were contemplating commissioning another ship to take his mother to another realm sooner than expected. Arthur ached to reach over and touch his wrist. He ate another tart instead. It wasn’t his place to soothe Merlin as a lover might – no matter what Merlin seemed to think whenever the two of them were alone together. No matter how often Arthur melted into a puddle whenever Merlin dared to touch him. “But marriage isn’t on the table for me right now, as you know very well. It could take years for that to happen. Arthur, do me a favour and have some wine summoned please; I can feel a headache coming on.”

Arthur swallowed a sigh.

He knew a long evening was waiting for him.


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is another chapter for you lot. 
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think!

Arthur wasn’t at all sympathetic the following morning, not even when Merlin was doubled over, almost wrapped around the chamber pot and heaving what remained of his stressed guts up. But he attended Merlin regardless. He ran a soothing hand between his shoulder blades and ignored the pungent odour slamming his senses in favour of laughing at Merlin as he complained of feeling like a resurrected corpse. Arthur laughed because he remembered how his master had claimed he’d never felt as alive as he did the night before, when he’d shoved Arthur down upon the large bed with a burst of wild magic before passing out and falling on him hard enough to bruise. Of course, laughing sent a burst of pain across his bruised torso, and Arthur hissed and pressed a quelling hand there.

“Arthur,” Merlin managed to moan once the heaving subsided. His flailing arm almost hit Arthur in the face as he sat up. It took a coordinated effort to get him turned around and leaning against the stone wall. Arthur knelt in front of him and moved ever so carefully, trying not to overstretch his sore muscles as he reached for the nearby ewer and poured a goblet of cold water for him. Merlin looked devastated behind his washed out colouring. His fingertips brushed over the laces of Arthur’s tunic. His mouth trembled. “I remember hurting you last night.”

“I don’t see how you can remember that. You were unconscious.” Frowning, Arthur avoided looking at him for a moment and offered the goblet of water, watching as shaking fingers wrapped around it. Merlin took a careful mouthful and swallowed and shuddered for a minute, his eyes squeezing shut as though he expected the vomiting to start back up again. Arthur ran a soothing fingertip over the curve of one large ear, his mouth a desert and his stomach a mess of knots. “We both know your falling on me was an accident.”

“But shoving you down wasn’t.” Merlin looked up, his hand tightening around the goblet until his knuckles whitened. Arthur watched him struggle with whatever he wanted to say, and kept stroking, kept attempting to reassure him without words. The use of words wasn’t his strongest feature, not when it came to matters like these. “I shoved you down on purpose, Arthur, and I don’t know what would’ve happened had I not passed out. I could’ve hurt you so much more than this.”

“You wouldn’t have.”

“Arthur, you don’t know that –”

“Actually, I do.” Arthur regretted his sharp tone the instant Merlin winced in pain. He softened his voice and slipped his hand into thick raven hair. A shiver rippled down his spine when Merlin leaned into the touch at once, bloodshot eyes slipping closed. Nerves tightened his stomach as Arthur wondered whether he was as much of a tease as Merlin had claimed he was. He wondered whether some part of him was seducing his master on purpose in spite of the law, in spite of the almost constant fear that curled around his spine like vines and squeezed until he couldn’t move. “I know you’d never hurt me on purpose, no matter how much wine you’ve imbibed. There isn’t an inch of me that doesn’t trust you.”

Arthur almost swallowed his tongue when Merlin looked up at him with hesitant hope. It was as though he wasn’t even sure he deserved such trust. His heart skipped a dozen beats when Merlin sniffled at last and smiled and looked away, but at least he didn’t look as miserable as he’d looked a minute ago. Arthur couldn’t help smiling like an idiot then. He shifted to sit beside Merlin and wasn’t surprised when Merlin slumped against his shoulder like a boneless fish. His smile softened. He let himself slip an arm around Merlin against his better judgement. Arthur sat with Merlin for an hour, letting him recover, letting him take the support he needed. Maybe it wasn’t his place. But Merlin didn’t seem to care about that fact.

After that hour, it was as though Merlin had never been suffering the aftermath of drinking himself into a stupor in the first place. At least having magic was good for something.

The rest of the morning passed without incident.

Merlin dined with his uncle for lunch and Arthur was dragged along, but wasn’t permitted to serve; King Bayard didn’t trust him as far as he could have thrown Arthur – which wasn’t far at all. Arthur stood at one side of the private chamber with his hands pressed against the stone. Just as he was ordered to do. Merlin didn’t speak to him while dining, but he spared a glance once in a while, and touched his shoulder with a gentle hand once the pair of them escaped the King, as though to apologise for having to ignore him for so long. Arthur couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t his fault that his uncle was a suspicious and paranoid fool.

Merlin spent the first half of the afternoon working up a sweat with the men under him and then continued with Arthur, continued his basic training, though he’d made a concession with the fatal moves that Arthur abhorred. Training was almost too painful to bear, but Arthur managed to make it through without keeling over, and Merlin took care of him afterwards. He bathed him when Arthur couldn’t move a muscle for stiffness, and he dried him with a towel after, before ushering him into bed and taking the time to slather salve over the bruise mottling his torso. Arthur was almost too sore to luxuriate in his touch and so he luxuriated in his quiet murmuring instead. He luxuriated in the private smile that Merlin gave him and the fingers that carded through his damp hair after Merlin washed his hands. He let Merlin read to him from a Greek tome. Arthur still didn’t understand the language, but he appreciated the softness of his voice, the soothing notes that coaxed him to sleep.

The bathing and reading to follow became a routine between them as days turned into weeks – one that Arthur cherished...though he couldn’t admit it aloud. Neither of them spoke of such occurrences or planned them. It just happened on its own. Maybe that was the reason Arthur cherished them so much. He didn’t know. He didn’t need to know. All that mattered was that Arthur didn’t feel quite as fearful or miserable when listening to Merlin read and feeling rough fingertips skate across his scalp, soothing, and tender, laced with adoration.

Just the thought made his face heat as Arthur collected a basket of clothing and bed linens from the laundresses in the lower levels of the castle. Fortunately, the heat of the washing rooms provided him the perfect reason to excuse his flushed features.

Arthur lingered and chatted with a number of the maids for a few minutes before making his excuses and hastening down the corridor. His spirits rose into the clouds as he inhaled the scent from the laundered clothing and bed linens. It smelled as divine as ever and Arthur was still inhaling it when he returned to his master, who was in the middle of dressing, movements sluggish and his hair a tangled mess. His cheek still bore the indent from his pillows. Arthur swallowed a laugh and set the basket down on the table. He closed the distance between them and clucked his tongue when he saw the ridiculous mess Merlin had made of his laces. He batted his hands away; his own fingers were quick and efficient as Arthur untangled the absurd mass of knots Merlin somehow created in his tired haze, and Arthur couldn’t help but look up from under his lashes as he wished with all his heart that he wasn’t dressing Merlin now, but undressing him. That he was undressing him with the intention of running his hands over each inch of skin that revealed itself instead.

Arthur, however, knew he could survive on moments like these – moments filled with so many of the little things in life that kept him content. He wasn’t happy, exactly, but he was content enough to manage without devolving into a pit of despair. As much as he wanted Merlin to crush him against his large mattress – and he wanted that so damned much – it was enough to have Merlin hide his face in his hair now, to feel him take a deep breath as Arthur couldn’t help but smile, his hands now smoothing over the fabric of Merlin’s tunic, ensuring there wasn’t a crease in sight. It was enough to hear him hum in happiness. The sound vibrated against his scalp just right. Merlin wasn’t his lover, but he was more than his master, more than a simple friend and Arthur knew he couldn’t ask for more. He couldn’t ever dare to ask for more. Neither of them could while King Bayard still lived. But none of that mattered as much as these small and precious moments with Merlin.

“You know, Sire, I don’t know why I keep expecting you to know how to dress yourself when you can’t even wake up without me to drag you out of bed.” Arthur shivered when a tired huff of laughter sent a surge of warm air over the top of his ear. He wondered what it would be like to feel it elsewhere for a moment. A grin tugged at his mouth. “Maybe we should get a rooster. I’ve heard they’re very loud and annoying when the sun rises.”

“Really? Roosters must be some relation of yours then.”

A bark of surprised laughter escaped Arthur, despite the mocking, before he pressed his face against a shoulder to muffle the chuckles that followed. Another pleased hum escaped Merlin as an arm wrapped around Arthur, nice and slow, giving him time to withdraw. But he didn’t withdraw. Another arm slipped around him then. Two warm brands ran along the curve of his back and Arthur sighed in muted pleasure. Part of him wanted them to slip lower, but he couldn’t muster the courage to ask. Arthur wasn’t that daring; he wasn’t as brave or reckless as Merlin could be sometimes. Maybe that was a good thing. Arthur let the embrace last longer than necessary, and then withdrew, asking what Merlin needed done for the day.

“Nothing,” Merlin answered without pause. He let the distance build back up between them as Arthur moved to sort through the documents strewn across the writing desk – all the paperwork Merlin must have worked through after he’d soothed Arthur to sleep in the antechamber. “I cleared my schedule so we can visit the haven.”

Arthur almost choked on his tongue when he came across a charcoal drawing depicting a thick coronet decorated with a fivefold symbol housing the spread wings of a butterfly on the front piece. He knew what those meant according to the old religion. He’d read about symbolism when reading the various texts on magic. The fivefold symbol represented balance and the butterfly represented transformation or unfurling glory and rebirth. Arthur looked at Merlin and wondered what he was planning, what schemes were developing in that private brain of his. He knew the coronet wasn’t meant for Merlin. It wasn’t as large or as ostentatious as the crown of a king, but a consort could wear it without issue. His stomach knotted at the thought of Merlin choosing a husband or bride, at the thought of having to step aside, to distance himself even further in order to make room for a royal consort.

Arthur looked back down at the drawing and was tempted to rip it to shreds. Instead he stored it in the drawer and concealed it under lock and key, along with the revised patrol plans he’d also come across. He couldn’t ask Merlin to make promises he couldn’t keep, not when he had two realms to care for. Merlin needed to do whatever was best for Camelot and Mercia – even if that meant Arthur needed to step aside at some point. He’d swallow his own heartache and do it for Merlin. He’d do it for Camelot. The realm was so much more important than him. Arthur had known that all along, no matter how each adoring touch from Merlin tried to convince him otherwise, no matter how much part of him wished it wasn’t the case.

“You look like you’ve just made a big decision.” Merlin pressed against him in a long line along his back and Arthur swallowed as strong arms wound around him. Gentle lips almost grazed that sensitive spot behind his ear; it made his skin tingle just enough to know how close those lips were. His resolve wavered for a moment as his knees wobbled. Merlin ran his hand over his stomach. “Is it about wearing these white tunics more often? Because you have my full approval. I love seeing you in white, especially when the sun is shining, and I can look over and see almost straight through your tunic.”

“Is that right?” An awkward laugh escaped Arthur. His toes curled in pleasure. “You know, pressing against me like this makes it so much harder to do my job. Cling to me much longer and you’ll start turning into moss.”

“You love it.”

“Shut up.” Embarrassment flooded his face. “I don’t love it when you tease me.”

“I can’t believe you’re lying to me already,” Merlin teased. His arms tightened around Arthur just enough to make him feel warm and welcome and loved. Just being enveloped in that much affection made his eyes sting. Not that he’d ever admit it. Merlin chuckled into his ear, the sound low and deep, reverberating through his frame. “You know, that isn’t a good foundation for a relationship, romantic or otherwise.”

“Shut up!” Arthur twisted around to look at him over his shoulder, and regretted it when Merlin came into kissing distance of his mouth. He narrowed his eyes when Merlin made a blatant show of biting back his amusement. “Anyway, omission is your favourite thing, so you have no right to judge me! Why didn’t you tell me about Sir Tor?”

“Arthur, you found out about Sir Tor weeks ago.” Merlin frowned and let him go, allowing the distance to build back up, moving over to the fireplace and fiddling with one of the various ornaments there. He looked back at Arthur, his expression tight and uncomfortable. In an attempt to make things easier, Arthur sat on the writing desk and folded his hands instead of looking out the window, arms folded – as Arthur would have preferred to do under normal circumstances, but these were delicate matters. “You could’ve asked me then. You could’ve asked me whenever you wanted. I don’t keep things from you on purpose, you know. I’ve just never made a habit of discussing personal matters with people. You know how hard it is for me to find someone I can trust. I have countless allies here, but none of those bonds extend into friendship, apart from what happened with Sir Tor...and even then there are things that can never be discussed – like the relationship I share with you. Arthur, you can ask me whatever you want and I’ll answer.”

Neither of them spoke for a minute or two, and then...

“Do you love him?”

“Of course,” Merlin answered quietly, his expression soft with understanding, taking a single step closer, “but that doesn’t mean I’m in love with him. I may have fancied myself in love with him once, but that was before you and I ever met. I’ve learned better since then. Sir Tor is a dear friend to me and nothing more.” Merlin kept speaking, but Arthur lowered his gaze and looked at his hands. His relief was more selfish than he could ever express, but he couldn’t squash the wave that washed through him at the earnest announcement. He couldn’t squash the surge of his spirits. He couldn’t stop the idiotic grin that spread across his face. “Arthur, I can’t believe you were even worried about that. Honestly, did you expect me to be taking him to bed while I attempted to court someone else? I do have some sense of honour, you know.”

“No, I know that. I do.” Arthur looked up, his grin at last fracturing, the desolate mood returning with vengeance. His voice wavered a fraction as he continued speaking, his words catching in his throat here and there, the shame of his remembered lineage searing his gut. He looked back down at his hands and felt that familiar sting, but this time it wasn’t the result of affection. He wasn’t good at this. He wasn’t good at opening up, at letting Merlin know how he felt about such personal matters. Maybe he was as bad as Merlin. “But it would have been so much easier for you to choose him instead. I wouldn’t have blamed you for choosing him...or for choosing someone else, you know. I won’t ask you to make promises to me because I know that circumstances can change, that how you feel about me may change, no matter what I could be hoping, wishing, or wanting. I’m not a fool. I know expecting someone to love me forever is impossible, and more than a little unfair given the circumstances here –”

“Arthur, you know that isn’t –”

“Whatever.” Arthur felt his face burning. He hopped down from the writing desk and avoided looking at him. “Just leave it alone. It isn’t important. Now, you said we were going to the haven this morning, right? Can we go now?”

“Fine, but this isn’t over. I’ll pin you down eventually,” Merlin warned as he donned his leather coat. “Wear something warm; we won’t be travelling the usual way.”

Arthur ignored the imagery that came to mind at some of his words and hastened into the antechamber, pulling the lined blue riding jacket Merlin had given him the previous midwinter from the wardrobe, his hands tight around the leather. He could remember the moment he’d received it with perfect ease. Merlin had presented it to him in the early morning, the jacket folded and laid inside a decorative case, and Arthur had gaped down at it. Then he’d gaped at Merlin. The jacket was finer than anything he’d ever owned. He’d never worn it. He’d refused to wear it into the ground before its time. Now, however, Arthur made sure to slip it on and button it up before returning to the main chamber, knowing it would fit him like a glove – just as Merlin planned at the start.

Merlin almost dropped his sword when he glanced up, his fingers frozen in the middle of securing the scabbard to his belt. An unintelligible noise escaped him. A minute or two passed before Merlin managed to secure the scabbard to his belt at last. Neither of them spoke, but Arthur smirked as he moved past his master, dropping to his knees to fetch Carnwennan from the trunk at the foot of the large bed. He could almost feel the wave of muted desire and appreciation radiating from Merlin. Arthur rose to his feet and turned to give him the blade for safekeeping, aware that he couldn’t wield it in the castle, not without being endangered first.

It wasn’t long until the two of them found themselves on the ramparts with an excited young witch clinging to them both as Merlin tossed his head back and started speaking, his eyes glowing with magic, his voice plunging to a pitch that sent a frisson of desire through Arthur – a fact that shamed him when he remembered the girl holding his hand with her own gloved one. He’d come to learn that Ninianne was tactile almost to the extreme, often touching people without thinking, and Arthur found it endearing. Honestly, he loved the tight hugs he received each time he visited Lady Hunith and her young daughter, loved the casual touches that happened during conversation. It was no wonder that Merlin could be so affectionate with a loved one, considering his intense exposure to his mother and sister, and Arthur was grateful. Merlin had no problem showing how much he cared once the two of them disappeared from view of the public.

“Sire, is there a reason we’re standing here like idiots?”

“Yes.” Merlin rolled his eyes. “You just need to demonstrate a little patience. Our friend has to travel a fair distance to get here, but he’ll arrive in a short while; the perks of having powerful wings and even more powerful magic.”

His words were proven true fifteen minutes later when a dark speck appeared in the distance, swooping down from behind an impressive bank of clouds. Arthur retreated back a step as the creature grew larger; each powerful plunge of its wings propelled it faster, and its distant darkness became a vibrant red that threatened to blind those watching when the sun struck its scales at just the right angle. He raised a hand in front of his eyes as a powerful wind almost knocked Arthur on his arse, the ramparts groaning beneath the sudden weight of a creature that carried numerous identifying markers that matched the ones described in the texts he’d read in his pursuit of knowledge.

A pinkish haze of sunlight filtered through the thin membrane of its wings before the pair folded against its immense frame. Muscles rippled beneath scales. Its stance was majestic and raw with power. The dragon looked down at Arthur, golden eyes gleaming with animal intelligence and no small amount of malice. Its lips curled back to reveal teeth stained with blood and Arthur retreated back another step, heart thumping, and sweat breaking out upon the small of his back as a frisson of fear went through him. A chuckle that rumbled like cascading earth escaped the dragon as it crouched before them. Talons longer than his damned arm scraped against the stonework. The dragon looked prepared to pounce upon him in an instant and crush him beneath its weight. His fear abated somewhat when the dragon slid his gaze over, fastening upon his master, who looked at ease with an enormous beast towering in front of him.

“You summoned me?”

“Thank you so much for coming, Kilgharrah.” Merlin beamed up at the dragon that sighed in annoyance at the sight of his immediate smile. “I know you’d prefer not to leave the haven. Anyway, I was hoping we could give Arthur the tour, like the one we gave Ninianne when she was little. Would you be willing?”

“I’m not a horse,” Kilgharrah snapped in an offended tone.

“No, I know that. Of course, I know that.” Merlin gave an innocent shrug, ducking his head with another softer, warmer smile. “I’m asking, not ordering. You have the right to refuse a request whenever you want. If you don’t want to, we can go the long way, but I thought it might be nice. We haven’t flown together in a while.”

“You were the one that stopped asking me – not that I minded. I don’t live to serve you.” Kilgharrah still sounded somewhat offended as he looked once more at Arthur, but if dragons were capable of smirking, then this one was now wearing the most aggressive smirk known to man. It made Arthur twitch with the need to bolt from the ramparts and disappear back into the castle. “I’d assumed some business kept you distracted and I suppose I wasn’t wrong, young warlock.” Another chuckle escaped the dragon as Kilgharrah tilted his head. “How small you are to have sparked so much suffering, Arthur Pendragon.”

Arthur dropped his gaze as an ache flared behind his sternum.

“Shut up,” said Ninianne in a fit of anger, her hand tightening around his. His eyes squeezed shut as Merlin doubled the sentiment. Her following sentences were short and punctuated with her anger. “How can you be so mean? You know what happened wasn’t his fault. None of us choose to be born.”

“Sometimes I wonder how I came to miss you so much.” Kilgharrah snorted and a small burst of blame expelled from his nostrils before extinguishing in the next instant. His spiked tail swiped through the air behind him in irritation. “Very well. I’ll consent to letting the lot of you ride me. Hurry up before I change my mind.”

Kilgharrah extended one leg, and made a path of sorts to lead up to his back. Ninianne was the first to scarper up, her anger muted due to his allowance, but still present. She gave Kilgharrah a scolding swat on her way up, a fact which seemed to amuse the dragon to no end.

Merlin shifted closer to Arthur, his hand finding his elbow, and gave a gentle squeeze, the touch warm and tender. Arthur let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d held and the ache in his chest flared deeper as he dragged in another, and forced it into his protesting lungs. He made no move to take a step. Instead he covered the hand that gripped his elbow and squeezed. He squeezed until his knuckles ached. He heard no complaints from his patient master, who shifted even closer, murmuring, “Arthur, you don’t have to be afraid. I won’t let you fall.” Merlin paused for a moment when Arthur shook his head. He wasn’t afraid of falling, not really, not when Kilgharrah was watching them with gleaming eyes that reminded him of a cat coming to a decision on which mouse looked the fattest and most delicious. “Or are you worried about something else? Kilgharrah would never hurt you. He wouldn’t dare.”

“Okay,” Arthur croaked in answer, his shoulders sinking, his lower spine aching at the sudden release of tension. He eased his grip and swallowed a pang of guilt when Merlin frowned down at his fingers and flexed them. “Okay, I believe you. But I’m still not going up on my own.”

Merlin looked up and smiled at him then. His hand returned to keep a secure grip on Arthur and then the pair of them took a step, and then another, and soon Arthur was squeezing his eyes shut as he settled behind Merlin atop the dragon. He pressed as close as he could manage and buried his face against the leather of his coat. Winding his arms around him was instinctive. A pleased hum rumbled through the frame in front of him and Arthur swallowed the whimper that rose when Merlin patted his hand. Arthur didn’t watch the stones shift below as the dragon lurched and leaped over the edge of the parapets. He didn’t watch them plunge towards the ground as the wind ripped at his hair, at his clothes. He didn’t look up as the sudden snap of wings slowed their descent before another sent them shooting up, up, up into the sky, where the air was cool and crisp against his skin.

His arms tightened around Merlin.

His hands fisted his coat.

Arthur didn’t let go until Merlin whispered that it was okay, that the ground was only a few feet away, but he didn’t open his eyes again until he felt that ground beneath his hands and knees. He almost choked on the relief pulsing through him as his fingers burrowed into soft earth. His heart thumped in his chest. His skin was damp with cold sweat. Merlin crouched at his side, expression confused but sympathetic, and he ran a soothing hand between his shoulder blades.

“I’m sorry; I never thought it would affect you like this. Ninianne has loved being in the air since she was little. I won’t make that mistake again. I’ll ask Ares to come get us for the return trip, okay?” An apologetic expression washed across pale features when Arthur managed to look up, managed to do something other than heave countless shaking breaths in through his mouth. But he still couldn’t muster a smile. “I haven’t mastered teleportation yet. Ares said finding inner peace is an integral part of mastering the ability, and we both know a prince is seldom at peace. I’m hoping I’ll have better luck in the distant future, you know, when I have someone to keep me grounded.”

“I hope you do,” Arthur managed to say, the ghost of a smile curling across his mouth. He let his master pull him to his feet and looked around. Ninianne and Kilgharrah were nowhere to be seen. “I suppose you have to weave me into the protective enchantments now.”

Merlin waited until Arthur was standing on his own before letting go, before reaching for Carnwennan. Arthur arched an eyebrow as Merlin unsheathed her with a faint smile. He watched as Merlin curled his fingers around his wrist and forced him still as he pressed the tip against his finger. Arthur gasped at the pinch. Blood swelled to the surface and kissed the blade. It stained her edge, but doubled her dangerous beauty. Merlin turned and faced what appeared to be an endless forest. His eyes flared gold. Arthur watched as Merlin began to invoke the ancient tongue, his voice rising and falling, channelling power into every word that dripped like honey, before flicking the blade and a single drop of blood was swept up into the spell-work.

The endless forest melted and in its place bloomed a deep valley, nestled between the mountains like a precious child between loving parents. Water cascaded down a steep mountainside and plunged into the pool below, splashing, frothing, misting, a rainbow of varied hues bursting into existence in the air as the sunlight refracted within the pleasant spray. There were caves dotted here and there. Some were minuscule, not even reaching his knee, but others...others were enormous, burrowing deep into the mountainside and absent of light. A few ledges hung low, providing shelter from the rain or shade, but Kilgharrah sprawled across the top of one, his long tail hanging down and swishing, a gleam in his ancient eyes as a small boatful of hatchlings attempted to pounce upon his tail over and over, growling and pushing at one another, struggling to emerge victorious. Kilgharrah let out a low and warm chuckle.  

Arthur took a step, prompted by his master, and gasped as a twig snapped underfoot. A number of dragons the size of falcons burst into flight. His heart leapt into his throat as the fleet of dragons flew sudden circles around him after diving down from the trees. He could hear them whispering, whispering his name, hushed and awed – as though their lot had known he was coming. It was as though their lot had waited such a long time for him to arrive. Their awed enthusiasm rippled through the valley before Arthur could even take a breath and Merlin wrapped a warm hand around his elbow once more, squeezing, comforting, and grounding. Curious heads poked out through bushes and surfaced in the water, droplets glittering against their varied scales, and still others poked their heads down from the branches of tall trees.

It was unnerving, overwhelming, and more incredible than Arthur could ever hope to express.

Arthur was relieved to have Merlin there, holding him up, since his knees started to wobble under the weight of their unified staring. He looked around for Ninianne, and found her sitting under a tree, a dragon no bigger than a cat curled up on her lap, almost purring as she stroked its scales. Three other dragons were sleeping with some part of their bodies touching her legs or sides. Ninianne seemed happier than he’d ever seen her, which said something, since she hadn’t stopped grinning since her return from the continent. It was clear that she took after her brother in some respects.

“Did you tell them I was coming?”

“No.”

“Then how do all these other dragons know who I am?”

“Because Kilgharrah knows who you are,” Merlin answered with a smile, something secretive and playful dancing in his eyes. It reminded him of the moment Councillor Ares shoved him up against the wall. His stomach knotted at the thought. “Now, come and say hello.”


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's read and left kudos on the fic so far. I really appreciate it.
> 
> As always, feel free to let me know what you think!
> 
> Note:
> 
> Robyn is an original take on another figure in UK folklore, but not Arthurian. I'm not the first to fuse the folkloric tales - anyone who has read The Once and Future King knows T H White did it as well. ^_^

The next morning was no less exciting, but far less pleasant. The patrol that rode out at dawn never returned and Arthur couldn’t help feeling relieved that his brother wasn’t among the few selected guards that accompanied them. Unfortunately, his master couldn’t afford to be relieved over such a thing; each man that died in his service was a weight on his shoulders. Merlin was silent and unapproachable, but to a certain few, his magic pulsing around him in thick waves. Just mounting up beside him was enough to send goose bumps racing across his skin. Arthur glanced at him as Hengroen pranced backwards in a show of nervousness, and reached out to touch his wrist when the stable hands were focused elsewhere. Merlin looked at him and then down at the anxious horses. The pulsing magic eased away, sinking back inside him as Merlin focused. The pair of them shared a strained smile before calming their mounts with gentle hands.

Sir Tor was among the group that volunteered to escort them into the Darkling Wood. He looked grim astride his own horse, but that was understandable: he’d been swapped out of the patrol that morning at the last minute, his father having required his aid in strengthening the siege tunnels on a sudden whim. It was clear Sir Tor felt he should have been among the missing, and nothing either of them said managed to alleviate his overwhelming guilt.

The group divided into pairs a few feet into the Darkling Wood and left the horses secured to the sturdiest branches. There was a Knight to pair up with each mage, but for Merlin. He insisted on taking Arthur with him. Arthur kept close to his master, his hand wrapped tight around the hilt of his baselard. Carnwennan was an enchanted blade or so Kilgharrah had informed him the day before, one that had been burnished in the flames of his mate and given as a gift to the De Bois line for having rescued one of their youngest hatchlings from a serket once. Kilgharrah claimed that Carnwennan would allow the wielder to fade from sight with the utterance of a single phrase, even if the wielder possessed no magic of their own. His master hadn’t had a chance to teach him the pronunciation yet. Now, Merlin stalked through the undergrowth with an arrow knocked on his bow, confident fingers loose, prepared to aim and pull in an instant. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen Merlin look dangerous, but there was something threatening about Merlin now, about the muted anger that underscored each step and the determined edge in each assessing glance. Merlin had made the shift from benevolent master to dark hunter in the blink of an eye. Whoever was found to be the culprit would regret their actions as soon as Merlin got his hands upon them.

The Darkling Wood was too quiet – at least Arthur thought so, his attention roaming the gaps between the trees as he listened for the slightest sound of wildlife. But there was none. There was no rustling, no scuffling, and no flap of wings. There were no eyes watching them from behind leaves.

It wasn’t natural in the least.

Tendrils of suspicion wound their way through Arthur, and he shifted closer to Merlin as his nerves acted up, as his heart pumped adrenaline through his veins. Sweat made his grip on Carnwennan hot and slick. Merlin went still ahead of him. Had he been a horse, Arthur was certain his large ears would have been flicking around in a controlled circle, listening to the unnatural silence settling around them. A twig snapped in the distance an instant before a band of magic seized Arthur and hurled him across the small clearing ahead.

Arthur hit the ground with a pained shout. Trust alone kept Carnwennan secured in his hand through the tumble. He caught a brief glimpse of a long and powerful tail slamming into Merlin before his momentum sent him rolling another four feet and into a large thicket. Arthur hissed in pain as thorns bit into his skin. He wrenched himself free regardless and scrambled to his feet to see a creature the likes of which he’d never seen before. It was massive, furred and spotted like one of the leopards he’d seen depicted in books and as robust as a lion. A serpentine face dwelled where feline eyes and whiskers should have been. The beast was monstrous to behold. It was turning toward the sprawled and groaning form of his master before that thought had even crossed his mind and what Arthur did next was instinctive: he grabbed the nearest stone and hurled it as hard as he could.

Triumph surged in his gut when the stone struck the beast in the face. It reared and hissed and thrashed before whipping around to face Arthur, mouth open and angry, fangs longer than his arm dripping, muscles tensing in preparation. Arthur cursed and dived to the side a second before the beast collided with the thicket. He scrambled across the forest floor, his heart in his mouth and his trust in Carnwennan wavering, and he shouted in terror and pain when a paw slammed into him as a cat would bat a ball of string. He sailed across the clearing once more and collided with his disoriented master, the force knocking him to the ground all over again. Hands shoved at him and Arthur rolled to the side as Merlin did the same, the pair of them just avoiding being crushed when the beast leaped across the clearing again.

Renewing his trust in his blade, Arthur slashed at the powerful ankle nearest him and black blood gushed to the surface, staining fur and steel and skin. The beast roared in pain and wrenched away, limping, serpentine features twisting and burning with vengeance as it stared at him. Arthur surged to his feet and tightened his grip, prepared to do something even more stupid and brave, but the beast bolted when an arrow aglow with blue flames whirred through the air. It sank into the tree beyond as the beast disappeared in a blur.

Arthur, expecting Sir Tor and his mage, turned at the sound of someone crashing through the bushes and almost dropped Carnwennan in surprise at the sight of a woman a few years older, her skin as dark as shadow and her hooded tunic the colour of leaves. Another arrow was knocked and aimed at his heart before Arthur could even stutter a single greeting, but her dark eyes were fastened on Merlin and daring him to make a move, daring him to do something stupid. His master, however, seemed disinclined to move even an inch in either direction. Blood trickled down from a gash hidden in his hairline.

“Pellinore,” the woman shouted over her shoulder, her voice echoing, “Get your arse over here. You can blame these two idiots for losing the Questing Beast again!”

Merlin snorted in irritation at her words and then grimaced as he swayed in place, hand rising to the gash on his head. Though his instincts were shouting, Arthur didn’t dare move to help him. The bow-woman narrowed her eyes at Merlin and then glanced at Arthur, her mouth tightening, before stowing the arrow and unstringing her bow, slipping it into the thick quiver strapped across her back. She approached with her hands raised and Arthur let her, but his hand tightened around his blade. Just in case.

Neither of them argued when the bow-woman urged Merlin to the ground and crouched beside him. She ran critical eyes over the gash and opened a pouch tied to her belt. Out came a bandage and a wad of leaves that Arthur felt he knew, but couldn’t name at all. She chewed them up into a wet mess and then pressed them over the gash before wrapping the bandage around Merlin’s head. She was almost finished when three crashes signified the arrival of Pellinore and two other men.

The first man to emerge was almost as dark as the bow-woman and the next two were paler, but no less handsome. His bald head shone in the afternoon sunshine filtering down through the trees. He stood tall and proud and wielded the sword in his hand with a confidence the others couldn’t quite manage. It was clear he was the leader, and Arthur presumed he was the aforementioned Pellinore, but he made no effort to confirm his suspicions. It didn’t matter who the man was. What mattered was whether Pellinore would have them both executed to keep their identities safe. Arthur suspected that wouldn’t be the case, however, not after the bow-woman went to the trouble of tending to a man she didn’t seem to know, but should have recognised at once.

“Were either of you bitten?”

“No,” the bow-woman answered on their behalf. She rose from her crouch with enviable grace and gestured to Merlin. “Just tossed around like rags. I thought this one was going to faint.”

“His Highness is no weakling,” Arthur snapped as he took an automatic step toward her, hand tightening around his baselard until pain went shooting through his wrist. His mouth twisted in a snarl. “I’ll thank you to treat His Highness with the proper respect!”

“Respect is earned. A title can’t purchase respect from me,” the bow-woman answered with equal anger. Her dark eyes blazed with it. Her fingers twitched as though itching to reach for the bow stowed in her quiver. “His uncle waltzing in and giving him a crown doesn’t make him better than me. I’ll treat him however I damned please. Now, sit down and shut up, and tell us what the hell you think you’re doing; hunting the Questing Beast isn’t as simple as tracking a stag!”

“Arthur,” Merlin warned when Arthur took another automatic step, hackles rising even further, because Merlin had done things that were so much more than merit-able, “we need to know more about what we just faced. This is our chance. Don’t waste it for the sake of pride.”

“But –”

“Enough. Just come here and sit down for a minute, and let me do the talking for now, alright?” Merlin patted the forest floor next to him and smiled when Arthur obeyed the order, grumbling, cursing arrogant women and modest nobles. His master looked up at the group, expression sombre. “Thank you for intervening. I’m not sure either of us would’ve survived an encounter with such a creature. It was too fast and powerful by far,” Merlin admitted quietly, leaning just so against Arthur, borrowing strength and yet revealing nothing to the men and woman in front of them. “You may consider me indebted to your group, Pellinore.”

“Sire, you owe us nothing,” said the confirmed Pellinore, frowning, lowering himself to the ground after sheathing his sword. He rested the scabbard across his knees. The other men stood watch nearby, hands tight around hilts and eyes sharp, keeping an eye out for the beast and other dangers. “We were just doing our duty, the same as you. Robyn and I have been tracking the Questing Beast since it killed our father, Your Highness. Lancelot and Kay joined us in Howden two years ago. How did you come to learn about the beast?”

“I never knew it existed until I sensed its presence,” Merlin answered without even a pause, frowning, and then grimacing in pain when his frown pulled on the bandaged gash on his head. Arthur pressed a fraction closer, hoping his master recognised his concern. The answering press reassured him that Merlin had. “One of our patrols failed to return this morning and we came out to investigate. I imagine my men are heading this way now, after all that commotion. I’m glad none of them came upon us like your group did. None of them would have stood a chance against such a creature; it was on us in seconds – almost faster than I could sense it coming!”

“Sire, I know just what you mean. It was the same when we were younger, appearing out of nowhere, slaughtering without pause, and disappearing into the ether as though it was never there in the first place. But it’ll come back soon enough.” Pellinore and Robyn shared a glance. “People thought we’d devolved into lunacy, but we knew we never imagined the Questing Beast. You saw it here this afternoon.”

“How long has this creature been roaming Camelot?” Merlin leaned forward and folded his arms across his knees. A pained grimace flickered across his features. Arthur knew then that his master would be plagued with bruises after the hard blow from the Questing Beast. Honestly, the two of them were fortunate that worse hadn’t happened to them in the confrontation with the creature; the thought of being impaled upon those fangs made Arthur shudder in mounting horror, not to mention being torn open with those enormous claws. “Why haven’t I heard of it before? Why did none of you think to bring this matter to the court during petition?”

“Sire, Robyn and I tried to, but the King wouldn’t hear our petition when we were younger. He told us we weren’t welcome in the citadel again until...certain circumstances changed.” Pellinore tensed when Merlin narrowed his eyes. He ran a hand over his bald head and looked out into the forest instead of looking at either of them. It took a moment or so for him to elaborate and when he spoke up, he focused his attention on Arthur. The weight of his stare was immense. “Our parents were once members of the former court and we aren’t welcome again until the last Pendragon dies. We’re just about welcome in the realm and I’m afraid the death of our father wasn’t something the King cared much about.”

Arthur looked down at the cuts decorating the backs of his own hands as Robyn added the weight of her stare, her one filled with so much anger and resentment. As though it were his fault their father was dead. He was sick of being blamed for something so far out of his hands and wanted so much to go home, to crawl into bed and let Merlin soothe him to sleep, but that wasn’t an option. Not now. Not when such a dangerous creature still roamed free. It wouldn’t be right to leave the people of Camelot suffering, to leave them mauled and bleeding, victims to this infernal Questing Beast. It wasn’t right to do nothing. Just the thought made his stomach heave and his lungs constrict. He looked askance at Merlin. His master wore the same quiet determination on his face that Arthur felt surging through his veins.

“Then we’ll have to do something,” announced Merlin with a firmness that belied the wave of dizziness that came over him when he surged to his feet at once. Arthur wanted to shove him back down and take over, but he couldn’t risk undermining his dominance in front of Pellinore and his group. A moment passed before Merlin managed to stabilise himself. “The Questing Beast got the better of me because I didn’t know about it before, but now I do. So I stand a much better chance of defeating it. Arthur, I want you to head home and ask Tom whether I can commandeer his kitchen for a while. Then get your cuts seen to please. I don’t want you catching an infection because I dragged you out here.”

Arthur didn’t question his master, though he wanted to. He sheathed Carnwennan and rose to his feet instead. He headed back towards the castle, towards the secured horses waiting for their various riders. Hengroen pranced and gave a vigorous toss of his head at the sight of him. Arthur hastened to settle the charger before his nerves could unsettle the others around him and start a panic. He stroked his hands across quivering muscle and smiled when Hengroen snuffled at his face, at his hair, at the base of his neck. It was the work of moments to untie Hengroen from the tree and mount the saddle, his thighs welcoming the now familiar ache from spreading wide, his hands snapping the reins. Hooves thundered across the ground as Arthur urged Hengroen back to the citadel.

For once, the stable hands looked concerned at the sight of him when Arthur dismounted in the courtyard and shouted for Hengroen to be taken care of. The lot of them scrambled to obey, his superior rank forcing them to do so, regardless of their continued loathing of him. Arthur hastened down into the lower town and barged into the forge. The heat almost slapped him in the face, his skin unaccustomed to it now, after two years of working for Merlin. Sparks flew in all directions as Gwen rained blows down upon glowing steel as Tom paused in his work and glanced at Arthur, eyebrows lifting in surprise and no small amount of concern.

“His Highness wants to know whether he can use the kitchen for a while. I’m not certain what for, but he wanted me to ask you.” Arthur ignored the rising sting across his face as beads of sweat burrowed into the various cuts from the thicket until Tom nodded just once, slow and firm. Then he went right back to work. Arthur ran a hand across his brow, wiping the sweat away, his mouth a sudden desert in the heat. He escaped the heat as quick as possible and slipped into the main house.

Once there, Arthur dealt with the second half of the command given to him. He filled a basin with cold water from the bucket in the corner and slipped into the second room he’d once shared with his brother and sister, stripping out of his clothes without an ounce of hesitation. He soaked a clean rag in water and was in the middle of washing the earth and sweat and blood from his skin when the sound of hooves thundered past outside. Arthur knew it wouldn’t be long until Merlin knocked on the door, his men and the group of armed commoners at his back. He was just slipping his sweat-damp tunic back on over his head when the knock came. His pace quickened as Arthur went to answer the door, his clothes still stained with dirt and blood – all of his possessions now resided in the castle.

Merlin stepped inside with a grim smile as soon as the door opened. A few of his men and the band of commoners followed suit. Arthur watched his master move to the table, almost expecting some of the Knights to scoff at the poor standards of living, but no one made a sound as Merlin unfurled a map of Camelot and Mercia with a rough snap of parchment. Merlin spread the map out across the table, pinning the edges flat with the two halves of his now broken longbow – a cherished gift from King Rodor. Arthur felt his stomach tighten with sympathetic regret and swallowed the urge to touch his shoulder; it wouldn’t do to let himself get carried away, especially in front of men so loyal to the crown.

“Okay, Arthur and I encountered the Questing Beast here,” said Merlin as he stuck a pin into the Darkling Wood depicted on the map, “and your sources claim it first appeared here.” Another pin went straight through the citadel in Camelot. Just the thought made Arthur feel ill at ease. He couldn’t understand how no one had spoken of such a beast over the years.  More and more pins went into the map, and for each pin that sank deep, Sir Tor scribbled a date across a sheet of parchment. Arthur tensed as realisation dawned across the horizon of his mind.

“Sire,” Arthur interjected hoarsely, snatching the parchment from Sir Tor, who looked at him with some surprise. His eyes ran across the dates listed just to be sure. At first the dates were sporadic, a sighting every five months or so, but then the numbers started increasing, the creature appearing more and more often and getting closer to the citadel with each appearance. He looked at his master and stepped closer, almost closer than was advisable, showing him the dates Sir Tor had noted as Pellinore mentioned them and Merlin stuck pins into the map. “The Questing Beast is here because of me. This date here,” said Arthur, his voice starting to waver, pointing first to the date at the top and then at another further down the parchment in his grasp, “was the night I was born and here, where the sightings start occurring more frequently, was the morning you hired me as your manservant.”

“I can’t believe you remember that.”

“Yes. Well. I had reason to remember.” Arthur swallowed down the nervous chuckle that rose in his throat when Sir Tor coughed pointedly, and ignored the heat spreading down his neck when Merlin struggled not to smile at the implication. “Anyway, the dates match...but I’m not sure we can assume this is another attempt to have me killed. I can’t imagine Nimueh would just let the creature roam around instead of hunting me down.”

“I agree,” Merlin answered with a slow nod as his urge to smile faded at the reminder of Nimueh and her schemes. His attention returned to the map, to the large clusters of appearances circling the castle. The Questing Beast was stalking them as a predator would stalk a grazing herd of deer. “Pellinore, you said the Questing Beast was an omen...an omen for what?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know, Sire.” Pellinore stood straighter, an almost instant reaction to the authoritative note in his voice. “The Druids I’ve spoken to over the years have been vague and unhelpful at best. All I know is that Arthur Pendragon must be noteworthy, if creatures of this magnitude are manifesting at his birth.” Pellinore frowned and glanced at Robyn before refocusing upon Merlin. “However, I think there might be someone that does know; the Druids seem to have a hierarchal system of some sort and apparently, their figurehead is a man named Emrys.”

“I doubt it. Ruling figures don’t know everything, you know,” Merlin said after a brief pause, his attention returning to the map spread out in front of him. He ignored Arthur, who tensed at the utterance of the familiar name and had to squash the urge to reach for the nearest slender, but strong wrist – as though it could offer some protection against the whisper of treason repeating at the back of his head. It wouldn’t do to be noticed while reaching for Merlin. “We’re not omniscient. This Emrys figure could have as much knowledge about the Questing Beast as I do. I wouldn’t waste my time going after him...or her. We have all we need in Camelot.” Merlin muttered a spell that invoked the name of the creature then and the room went quiet as his eyes flooded with golden magic. A second later six heavy tomes toppled out of thin air in front of them and landed hard upon the table, jarring the room with the deafening thud that followed. Eyes still glowing, Merlin picked up one tome and offered it to Arthur, his expression determined and more than a little authoritative. “You’d better start reading.”

“Straight away, Sire,” said Arthur, accepting the tome at once and taking a seat at the table before anyone else in the room could even think of moving. Given their history, he wanted to make sure the band of commoners knew Merlin had his immediate obedience and respect. Symbols of the old religion popped out at him as soon as Arthur turned the cover. A small smile threatened to curl his mouth despite the situation. It was nice to know Merlin trusted his skills enough not to summon the dictionaries he’d once used so often when reading such texts. Arthur ploughed straight into the tome, his lips forming the words in silence, his fingertips skimming the pages as the content translated in his head. His brow furrowed in concentration. It was a difficult language to translate, Arthur knew, especially when so many of the symbols could have a different meaning depending on the context...but Merlin wouldn’t have trusted just anyone to translate such a tongue.

A burst of confidence surged through Arthur at the thought.

Arthur wasn’t certain how much time had passed since the beginning, but his eyes were starting to ache from concentrating so hard when Sir Tor made an exclamation that summoned Merlin to his side in an instant. Arthur didn’t have to look at them to detect the bubbling excitement that enveloped the pair.

It wasn’t long at all until Merlin and Sir Tor, along with Robyn and Pellinore, were working together to devise a plan of action. Arthur listened to them devise the strategy, his stomach sinking deeper and deeper into the floor as Merlin made no effort to include him in the plan. Arthur stared down at the table without expression. Merlin had never excluded him from a plan in the two long years since he’d been employed in the castle, and that Merlin would now was more than unsettling, disheartening, enraging; Arthur wanted so much to knock the table over, to send the map fluttering, that it almost ached to hold himself still as the men soon rallied around his master, who seemed fit as a horse despite the recent knock to his stupid head – one of the perks of having such powerful magic. He waited until Merlin was about to leave – about to shut the door and never look back – before rising from his chair in a sudden rush and seizing a handful of fabric. Arthur hauled him back inside and shut the door, pushing him up against it as anger pulsed through his frame, hot and almost uncontrollable.

“What about me?”

“Arthur, I don’t have time for this –”

“I’m sure you can spare a minute,” Arthur snapped before he could stop himself. It took a moment or two to swallow the rage that burned inside him as Merlin gaped at him in surprise. He forced his voice to soften. “You said I could ask you whatever I wanted and that you’d answer, so please answer me: what about me? What did I do to earn being left behind?”

“Nothing,” Merlin answered straight away, a faint frown of confusion rippling across his features. “Arthur, you haven’t done anything, but this situation could get messy, and I don’t want you out there should that happen. The Questing Beast is a lot more dangerous than anything we’ve faced before. I don’t want to take chances with you.”

“But I can help!”

“I know, but I want you to stay here.” A tendril of magic wound around Arthur in a warm embrace and tugged him back a step, giving Merlin room to move away from the door, his narrow frame straightening with commanding presence. Merlin poked him in the chest and gave him a knowing look. “That isn’t a request...or a polite suggestion either, in case you were thinking of reinterpreting the command I’ve given you. Stay here, and stay safe, and I’ll come back for you when I’m done.”

“Then at least take the dagger,” Arthur urged as he unsheathed the blade, her steel gleaming after he’d wiped the black blood off with his tunic earlier. He tried to make the offer, to present the blade to his master, but Merlin shook his head and covered the hand making the offer with his own. Arthur implored him even further, his voice growing more insistent as he did his best to help in some way, even though it didn’t seem like much help at all when Merlin had enough power to last more than a lifetime. “Sire...Merlin...don’t be such a stubborn mule. Please. With me sheltered and safe here, you’ll need an immortal blade much more than I will. Just take the damned thing!”

“No, Arthur.” Merlin shook his head once more, his tone growing twice as firm. “No one has the right to wield that blade but you. I can imbue my own blade with magic, and it’ll work just as well. The Questing Beast isn’t immortal. I’ll be fine.”

Merlin was gone before Arthur could utter another syllable, the door swinging shut in his wake, and Arthur stared at the vacant spot with a hollow ache building behind his chest. His hand tightened around the hilt of Carnwennan. A flare of pain shot through his knuckles under the force of his grip. Somehow, his heart had found its way into his throat and intended to settle there, to sow seeds and grow roots there. He didn’t want Merlin out there, facing the creature, not after what happened earlier, after witnessing the ease with which the Questing Beast bested Merlin. His master said he’d be fine, but he’d made no promises to come home to Arthur, in one piece or otherwise.

Arthur moved to the window, struggling to swallow, struggling to dislodge his aching heart as he watched Merlin and the men head away, watched them march towards possible death with a confidence Arthur couldn’t grasp. Nerves writhed and knotted within him. It should have been him going off to face this dangerous creature, risking life and limb for the people; the Questing Beast was in Camelot because of him. No one should have to risk their life for Arthur, no matter what Merlin said on the matter, no matter how much importance Merlin placed upon his safety. He wasn’t more important than the men intending to face the Questing Beast. He wasn’t more important than Merlin. Arthur remained at the window until he could no longer see the men or his master, and then turned away, mustering the scraps of his determination as he looked around his childhood home and searched for something to do, needing to distract himself with chores to keep his mind occupied.

He started with preparing a stew, and then he moved onto preparing a loaf as the stew simmered over the fire he’d set and ignited. Then he washed and dried the knives and mixing bowl before tackling the floor, an ache settling along the curve of his back as he scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed until his knees were numb from kneeling and his hands were red and sore. Hours passed like that: with Arthur sourcing more and more chores with which to keep himself occupied as the clang of the hammer echoed through from the forge, muffled but not audible, a reminder of his youth. He was just twisting and arching, groaning, letting the kinks in his back pop out of existence when the hairs on the back of his neck rose. He paused and looked towards the window, searching for the source of his sudden awareness.

Thick and almost impenetrable, the night had settled around Camelot like a blanket while Arthur worked. Only the faint glow of fires behind shutters broke through the darkness. His own dark reflection stared back at Arthur, obscuring his view of the street outside; it unnerved him. His hand dropped down to grip Carnwennan as he took a step, and then another, his gaze narrowing. He wasn’t certain what had put him on edge, but he knew Merlin should have returned by now; no one with half a brain went hunting in the dark. It wasn’t safe. His hand tightened around Carnwennan and he withdrew her, slow, his gaze still peering through his reflection at the gloom outside. Had he not been concentrating, he would have missed it: the faint shimmer, a blur, something almost faster than the naked eye could track.

Arthur dived to the side, his throat aching around a shout of fear, wood splintering and glass shattering as the Questing Beast crashed through the spot where he’d just been standing.

The Questing Beast snarled and hissed and thrashed around his childhood home, powerful claws gouging through the floor, muscled limbs slamming through the table, long tail whipping through the air above his head as Arthur choked out his master’s name, the sound of it falling from his tongue as a prayer might. Arthur scrambled to his feet and bolted as the Questing Beast struggled to right itself and whip around to give chase, his panic driving him onwards at the thought of that creature hurting his sister, his adoptive father, both of them so precious to him. He heard their frantic shouts in the growing distance, but he couldn’t linger, he couldn’t leave either of them at risk from the Questing Beast. Arthur knew the Questing Beast would follow him until it tore him limb from limb, until it tasted his blood on its forked tongue.

A violent surge of adrenaline coursed through his veins. Arthur ran hard and fast. He ran faster than he’d ever run before, his boots pounding into the earth as he shouted for his master, for the man that left him behind.

The Questing Beast crashed in his wake, careening into one house after another as it struggled to take the sharp turns leading through the streets of Camelot as Arthur barrelled on ahead.

Carnwennan pulsed in his hand and goose bumps rose, and Arthur let his trust in the immortal blade guide him to the ground in a hard dive an instant before the Questing Beast sailed through the air over his head. The Questing Beast skidded across the grass stretching now between Arthur and his master, between Arthur and the various mages that could have kept him safe and secure, sharp claws gouging through the earth as it slowed its momentum. Arthur scrambled to his feet as the Questing Beast whipped around to face him. Serpentine eyes stared at him in cold hunger. A forked tongue scented the air as the Questing Beast hissed at him in deep malice. Muscles rippled along its powerful frame and Arthur knew it was going to pounce, and this time there would be no escape.

At least he thought so until Councillor Ares appeared amid the rampant winds of a sudden swirling vortex that materialised between Arthur and the creature, his impressive staff twirling overhead and the end slamming into the ground an instant after the Questing Beast pushed away from the earth and lunged through the air, claws bared and jaw stretched wide around glistening fangs.

A pulsing globe of golden magic flared into existence, pushing out and up, shielding both Arthur and Councillor Ares. The growing shield of magic slammed into the Questing Beast and the force sent the creature flying out over the tree tops to disappear into the darkness with a distant crash.

“Well. That took more effort than I expected.”


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure when I'll be able to update again...so I thought I'd be nice and give you a second update this week. 
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you about this chapter. ;)

Stricken with panic and chest heaving, Arthur surged forward as Councillor Ares staggered to the side, his delicate hand rising to cradle his head as fatigue washed over him. The sorcerer, however, waved him off when he noticed Arthur approaching, forcing himself upright with a grunt of effort. His other hand tightened around his staff. Arthur kept an eye on the darkness around them as Councillor Ares drew in a sharp and shaking breath before recovering, his fatigue ebbing, his strength returning in slow increments as the gemstone embedded in his staff glowed and a delicate tendril of golden magic connected Councillor Ares to his gemstone. And then the sorcerer turned to face Arthur, eyes blazing, face flushed with colour, saying, “Please tell me you’re alright. Emrys would never forgive me had you been harmed tonight.”

“I’m fine,” Arthur answered quickly, his panic easing away, replaced now with relief that at least one mage was there to give aid against the Questing Beast. It still discomfited him to hear Councillor Ares speak of this unknown figure, but he’d much rather be alive and uncomfortable than dead. Arthur sheathed Carnwennan. He kept his hand on her hilt as he flicked his attention over to his rescuer. “What about you?”

“I’ll recover.” Councillor Ares waved a dismissive hand. Their attention returned to the edge of the Darkling Wood in the same instant and the darkness stared right back at the pair, deep and threatening, hinting at the dangers lurking within. A note of unease filtered into his voice then. “His Highness hasn’t returned and neither has Tor; we need to find them before that creature does...or in case it has already.”

“Are you mad?” Arthur seized an elbow, surprising even himself with the sheer amount of daring in the gesture, halting Councillor Ares midstride. “We can’t just go into the Darkling Wood at night!”

“Are you suggesting I do nothing?” Councillor Ares glanced at Arthur, his angelic countenance dark with anger, with imminent malice. The calm tone of his voice was almost more dangerous than the one Merlin tended to employ, and the sound of it almost made Arthur retreat a step, but he tightened his grip instead. “Arthur, I wish you wouldn’t be such a coward. You can come with me or go seek out your family, but I’m going into the Darkling Wood regardless. I can’t rest until Tor is safe and sound at home!”

“You won’t accomplish a single thing,” Arthur argued as Councillor Ares wrenched his arm free with a grunt of effort. He almost seemed surprised at how strong a grip Arthur had. It served him right for underestimating him. Cursing, Arthur hastened after the sorcerer, his thighs protesting each step taken after the intense exertion he’d endured earlier, but he couldn’t let Councillor Ares do something so stupid and reckless. No matter their differences and their disagreements. “You’re going to get yourself killed! No one is stupid enough to venture into the Darkling Wood at this late hour, and you can bet the Questing Beast has better vision at night than we do, milord.”

“Please don’t call me that.” Councillor Ares flicked an annoyed glance at Arthur, who struggled to keep up, and whose chest still heaved from his running, though to a lesser degree. In response to his earlier commentary, Councillor Ares muttered a spell and a sphere of pale blue light bloomed into existence, hovering over his palm. It cast a calming glow over the trees around them and the path stretching out ahead of them – a veritable beacon to all creatures that hunted at night. “If anything, I should be the one uttering formal titles. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about our little conversation for even a minute.”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Of course, you don’t. We both know your marriage to Emrys won’t be for a long while and I can’t imagine you’d want me within an inch of your wedding, but I’m sure Robert will be devastated to lose the chance to arrange it. He loves weddings. He spends half his time planning weddings for ladies at court.” Councillor Ares chuckled as he moved through the Darkling Wood and Arthur scrambled after him. He tripped over roots almost more often than he could count. “You know, Robert was miserable when he learned nothing happened between you and Tor, but he didn’t see the point in arguing; Tor can be a stubborn fool in some matters. He takes after me.”

“No, he doesn’t. I can’t imagine a man less like you.” Sir Tor was nothing like Councillor Ares; just hearing the insinuation made Arthur bristle with indignation. “Sir Tor isn’t a traitor to the crown.”

“King Bayard would think otherwise,” Councillor Ares snapped without looking at him even once. His pace quickened. It was as though he wanted to put as much distance between them and the castle as possible. Arthur couldn’t blame him. “That man isn’t rational when it comes to your existence, Arthur, and hasn’t been since his brother was killed. He would send a man to the gallows just for loving you. The one thing sparing Tor from a similar fate is the years of loyal service Robert and I have dedicated to the King, but each person that gives their heart to you is a heart taken from the current crown. Can’t you see that? You may yet be a commoner, but your deeds since joining the household have gained you power, have gained you the respect and favour of the people; the nobles of Camelot and Mercia know that. King Bayard knows that. He needs to catch you breaking the law, Arthur, before he can execute you without making a ripple of consequences and even then he’d be walking on thin ice. Moving too soon could cause a schism at best and a rebellion at worst. He can’t afford that. None of us can.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Arthur croaked as a surge of horror crashed through him. “You can’t think people will rise up and storm the gates just because the King sentenced me to a beheading. I haven’t done much at all. I’ve just been in the right place at the right time!”

“You’re the one being ridiculous now.” The chastisement in his voice almost brought Arthur to a stop, his spine going rigid and his muscles tensing until pain sparked bright across his nerves. “It isn’t a coincidence that you’ve been present when people needed saving. Arthur, you are meant to be on the throne, and nothing that occurs between now and then will change that fact. Fate has plans for you and not even King Bayard can get in her way, no matter how much he tries. You’ll be enthroned one way or another.”

“I would never usurp His Highness’ position as next in line,” Arthur snarled as he seized a fistful of robes and slammed Councillor Ares up against the nearest tree before he could take another step, minimising the space between them. “I don’t care what you think and I don’t care what your sources are, but I’d die sooner than let harm come to him. Fate can go for a long and perilous hike for all I care.”

“It doesn’t take much to get you going, does it?” Amusement flickered across angelic features under the glow of his floating magic. A quiet chuckle escaped Councillor Ares as he stared at Arthur. “No wonder he likes you so much. You’re wound up so tight right now I can almost feel the passion just waiting to release. Emrys is bound to relish the chance to take you to bed for the first time. I’m sure it’ll be memorable.”

Councillor Ares’ amusement doubled as Arthur wrenched away, his face flushed red and scalding, humiliation crashing through his veins with the force of a tidal wave. He found it difficult to imagine himself in bed with anyone that wasn’t his master, but especially not this Emrys figure, who planned to take the throne from Merlin. Just the thought of parting his thighs for that man and welcoming him inside made his stomach tense with growing nausea. It made his spine ache. Yet Councillor Ares seemed convinced that he would welcome this Emrys figure into his bed. A thousand thoughts tumbled through his mind and provoked a million questions as the sorcerer chuckled again and pushed Arthur aside roughly, continuing on ahead without a care in the world now that Arthur was almost preoccupied with his thoughts.

It took a minute or two for Arthur to move, and Councillor Ares was a vague shadow silhouetted against the blue glow of his magic at that point. Arthur hastened after him before he could be left behind. Despite the unwanted future Councillor Ares kept mentioning, Arthur didn’t want to be left behind again while the Questing Beast was still at large. He just wanted to find Merlin and make it back to the lower town in one piece. He wanted to scold his master for being a damned idiot with a death wish. Merlin should have gone home instead of chasing after that creature, knowing it could wipe the floor with him so easily, knowing one wrong move would mean never coming home. He’d never even paused to think how it would affect Arthur, how it would feel to be without his master, the man who’d come to matter so much to him.

Arthur quickened his pace, matching his stride to Councillor Ares’. The darkness stretched around them in all directions. Nothing broke the silence but their unsynchronised breathing, until a muffled groan of pain rumbled out from behind a tree nearby, and Arthur almost stumbled in his haste to reach the man it belonged to. Councillor Ares was close behind him.

“Tor,” Arthur breathed when the glowing sphere of magic illuminated a pained and familiar face, his hands scrabbling over skin damp with sweat and fabric wet with blood. The orb of magic brightened as Arthur wrenched off his own tunic, almost quicker than Councillor Ares could command him to do so, his hands shaking as he held it out for the sorcerer to clean and sterilise it with a burst of controlled magic. Arthur jumped into action once the tunic was back in his grasp. His hands were quick and efficient as he unbound the poor substitutes for bandages: the torn scraps of a blue cloak that hadn’t been secured around his arm upper arm or thigh tight enough. “Tor, I need you to speak to me.”

“Arthur,” Sir Tor groaned low, his head resting heavy against the tree propping him up, a look of exhausted despair washing across his familiar features. He looked as though he’d been stumbling and staggering through the Darkling Wood for hours. It was wrong, so wrong, to see the tears that followed in the wake of his uttered name. “Arthur, you must believe me,” continued his friend and former suitor, hand reaching for the nearest wrist as Arthur, using strips cut from his own tunic, rebound first the thigh marred with long, deep gashes that must have been inflicted by the dreaded creature and then his upper arm. Fortunately, the wounds had missed the arteries by the narrowest of margins...but the hours he’d spent hobbling through the Darkling Wood hadn’t helped stem the flow of blood at all. His belaboured breaths broke his sentences into painful fragments and Arthur swallowed a sob, his heart climbing up to lodge in his throat at the sight of his struggle to get the point across. “I tried to stop him from going after her!”

“What are you talking about? The Questing Beast doesn’t have a gender –”

“Not the creature,” argued Sir Tor, his grip tightening, his expression turning desperate in his search for understanding. Arthur forced his emotions down at the sight of his desperation. Now was not the time to fall to a million pieces. He needed to remain strong; to help Sir Tor and make sure Merlin came home at the end of the night. “Arthur, it was the sorceress. Nimueh was here!”

Sir Tor choked on a shout of pain when Arthur drew the makeshift bandage too tight around the wound in his arm as he went rigid with horror, with so much fear for Merlin and his penchant for reckless heroics that would have sent him running right into a trap, of course, the brave... _stupid_ idiot.

Only the fact that Arthur knew what he was doing kept Councillor Ares from wrenching him away from Sir Tor, away from the weakened and vulnerable lump his brave son had become since the attack. Instead the sorcerer kept watch for the pair, his magic crackling at the tip of his fingers in a show of nervous power, his eyes roaming the surrounding darkness that sat too still for their liking.

“Sorry,” Arthur croaked at once, his hands gentling, but his tone growing almost desperate. He finished securing the makeshift bandage around his arm and then smoothed back a lock of sweat-damp hair, his hand trembling, and his concern for Sir Tor and terror for Merlin rolling into one unbearable sentiment inside the barrel of his chest. Sir Tor protested when Arthur started undoing his own belt buckle, whipping the strong leather free before wrapping it around the thick thigh quivering in his grasp, drawing it tight to prevent the continued flow of blood from the worst of his wounds – a trick Merlin once showed him. He used Carnwennan to make a new notch in the leather and secured the buckle in place. Arthur couldn’t stop himself from leaning in then and pressing a kiss against his forehead. His fingers curled tight around links of chainmail warmed with blood. Sir Tor shivered and stilled beneath his affection and Arthur withdrew, his hands coming to frame his face, helping Sir Tor focus upon him again. “Tor, your father will take you back to the castle in a minute, but you need to tell me something first. Which direction did he go? Do you know what happened to the others?”

Sir Tor shook his head and hesitated before pointing over his shoulder, at the deep and distant gloom stretching on and on beyond the glow of magic. Arthur kissed him a second time, swallowing another sob at the hard press of cold lips against his own before he rose to his feet.

“Both of you need to get going,” Arthur urged quietly, shoving his heart down into a steel cage at the centre of his being, securing it under lock and key, ensuring no one could get a hand on it. A mask of determination flickered across his face as he turned to see Councillor Ares gaping at him with no small amount of horror, perhaps even a glimmer of scandalised outrage. “Just leave a light with me.”

“Arthur, this is suicide! You can’t be considering going after that madwoman!”

“I don’t care what you think. Remember our little discussion? Consider this moment a quid pro quo for something you may want in that future you think so set in stone,” Arthur growled low, scooping Carnwennan up from where he’d left her on the forest floor, his hand too tight around her hilt for comfort. He turned a commanding glance upon the experienced sorcerer, emulating the minute changes that would come over his master, and watched with more than a little quiet unease as Councillor Ares reacted to the changes he’d made in his own stance, bowing low, whispering his obedience. It should have surprised him that Sir Tor wasn’t even shocked at the sight of his father bowing to a commoner, but perhaps Sir Tor just couldn’t muster the strength to be shocked anymore; that wouldn’t have surprised Arthur, given how drained he looked. Arthur didn’t spare his friend and former suitor another glance, knowing that he’d feel the urgent need to stay, to make sure Sir Tor lived until morning.

But he couldn’t do that.

He needed to find Merlin and bring him back to the castle, where he could be safe and secure, where Arthur wouldn’t need to fear for him so much.

“I’ll need something to anchor the magic,” said Councillor Ares once he’d emerged from his bow, his expression anxious. His attention flicked between the dark forest surrounding them and Arthur. “That orb will fade as soon as I leave otherwise.”

“Here,” mumbled Sir Tor, reaching up, hand curling around the crystal Merlin once gave him. Arthur looked down at him in surprise, his stomach performing a somersault at the earnest expression on his face, before Sir Tor pressed the crystal against his palm and forced his fingers to close over it. “This crystal has enough magic inside to anchor the spell and give it a little boost as well. Just...don’t lose it. Please.”

“I’ll keep it safe,” Arthur promised gently, taking a moment to rebuild the cage around his emotions as he reached up. He secured the leather cord around his own neck and turned away, looking at Councillor Ares expectantly, his expression hardening when the sorcerer hesitated once more. It took a moment or two before Councillor Ares caved all over again and cast the required spell to anchor the orb of light to the crystal dangling from around his neck.

Arthur bolted as soon as the spell was cast and the orb glowed brighter, the powerful magic within the crystal fuelling the sphere of light. It glowed almost brighter than the moon hidden from the forest floor, but for a few pale streaks sneaking through the leaves overhead. It was almost like having Merlin at his side, whispering, guiding him through the darkness as he crashed through bushes and snapped twigs underfoot. It was a miracle no silent predator took advantage of his determination and distraction as Arthur sprinted in the direction Sir Tor had pointed out to him. He knew Merlin was alive. He knew he’d have felt his passing, would have felt it inside, where nothing and no one had dared to dwell until Merlin came along, tantalising, infuriating, and so damned innocent he’d become dangerous.

He wasn’t sure how long he ran. All he knew was the ache in his chest and the fire burning in his frame, but he kept moving, kept running, waiting, hoping for some scrap of good fortune. Hoping for Merlin to stumble out of the darkness and plough into him hard enough to send them both toppling, crashing to the forest floor, their powerful fall broken with a burst of protective magic. Hoping to feel his master safe and alive, braced over him and panting, eyes wide with the realisation that Arthur was right there beneath him on the forest floor, dazed and flushed with exertion but hands trembling, gripping, clinging, reassuring himself that Merlin wasn’t harmed. But Arthur couldn’t afford such dangerous hopes.

Arthur ran until he couldn’t run anymore, doubling over, hands stained with blood and the flat of Carnwennan pressing hard against his knees as he sucked in breath after breath. It ached to breathe. It ached to be alive, but that was all the more reason to keep breathing, to muster another wave of strength and keep going, keep searching for Merlin.

The night wind felt like ice against his scorching skin.

A shiver ran down the length of his spine as Arthur straightened and peered through the gloom. His chest continued to heave. It was much cooler now, his heated skin far too bare and vulnerable against the night wind. He knew then he should have had Councillor Ares duplicate his tunic before tearing it to shreds for Sir Tor, but it was too late for regrets now, and too late to go back. He’d have to soldier on regardless and he did so, forcing himself to ignore the burning in his thighs and arms and the pains shooting through his ankles as his boots pounded against the earth beneath him. He wasn’t accustomed to running for such extended periods of time. He wasn’t as fit as Merlin and his men – who could all run circles around the castle without breaking much of a sweat. Honestly, just watching them do a lap exhausted Arthur, and he’d watched them run more than once from an upper window, leaning against the wall and ducking out of sight whenever Merlin glanced up. It often seemed as though Merlin could sense him watching or sense his interest peaking, especially whenever Merlin ran without his tunic – which he did often. Arthur was almost certain he did it just to frustrate him.

Still running, and lost in thoughts and memories of his master, Arthur almost missed the snap of a twig in the distance.

The sudden sound brought him to a stop. Arthur stared into the gloom beyond the glow of the floating orb that had accompanied him through the Darkling Wood. A cold wave of terror washed through him when a pair of eyes glowed with magic in the darkness, closing the distance between them and Arthur, and then Merlin was stumbling to a stop less than two feet in front of him. He almost collided with him. Arthur choked on his tongue at the sight of the lacerations through his chainmail and gambeson and at the overpowering smell of singe and wood smoke. Merlin stared at him as though he couldn’t believe his eyes and then he was within an inch of Arthur, pressing close, his shaking hands coming to cup his face. He pressed their foreheads together, just as he would when struggling not to damn the consequences and kiss him breathless.

“Arthur,” Merlin croaked in obvious relief as Arthur shivered in his embrace, his own hands coming to catch slender wrists. His eyes fluttered closed despite the pounding in his chest. He swallowed against the urge to gasp when those strong hands started roaming across his frame, ensuring that he was still in one piece, but blazing against each available inch of his skin. “I thought I’d never see you again!”

“What the hell happened out here,” Arthur demanded once he’d managed to catch his breath and muster some measure of courage, his hands tightening around the wrists in his grasp, withdrawing enough to give Merlin a glare comprised of fear, anger, and no small amount of concern. “Sir Tor said Nimueh made an appearance and you went after her like a reckless idiot! Are you out of your mind?! She has years more experience than you!”

“I know.” Merlin swallowed hard and reached out to run a hand through sweat-damp blond hair, his fingertips dragging across the scalp. It made Arthur almost forgot his anger, but he just managed to hold on to the last fragment of it. He wouldn’t let Merlin distract him – no matter what. “But I saw her, and all I could think about was seeing you in your fever, after drinking that poison for me – not to mention the other attempts made on your life since then. Just the sight of her enraged me, Arthur. I never even paused to think it could have been a trap, and of course it was. She trapped me in a tree! I knew I’d made a mistake as soon as it happened and I couldn’t escape, no matter how much magic I threw at the damned tree, her spells were so intricate and intense. I just about managed to make a hole for air!”

Arthur chose to forget his anger in that instant. Concern came to the fore as his hands roamed over his master, reassuring himself that Merlin was still in one piece – just as Merlin did to him a moment or so earlier. Foreheads pressing together once more, Arthur and Merlin continued to cling to each other, hearts calming and breaths easing, neither one willing to withdraw.

“How did you escape,” Arthur whispered after a long moment of silence as Merlin gripped his hips almost hard enough to bruise. Hot and possessive, his fingertips dug into his lower back. “What happened to the others?”

“I wouldn’t have escaped at all had I not summoned help.” The confession escaped on a fearful shiver, strong arms winding around Arthur, crushing him closer. Merlin buried his face in his shoulder and dragged in a sharp breath. It was as though Merlin was attempting to commit the scent of him to memory. Normally, that thought would have made him blush...but his face was still hot and flushed from his earlier exertion. Instead it made him cling to Merlin harder. Each word that escaped Merlin sent a rush of warm breath across his cooling skin. Arthur shivered at the sensation. “Kilgharrah freed me – not even Nimueh is more powerful or more experienced with magic than the Great Dragon. I don’t know what happened to the others. One minute the others were right behind me and there was no sign of them the next. I think one of us might have tripped an enchantment. I’m sorry,” Merlin croaked desperately, his softer and deeper emotions now coming to the fore once both of them were certain the other wasn’t harmed. “I should never have left you behind. I knew it was a stupid idea the moment she strapped me. I was terrified she’d get to you before I did.”

“At least we agree on something,” answered Arthur, withdrawing enough to give his master a glare, the embers of his earlier anger bursting back into life. He poked Merlin in the chest hard and then flicked his nose with force enough to make that pale face he adored so much twitch in discomfort. A smile threatened to bloom upon his own face despite the anger still simmering inside him. “Just take me with you next time. It would have saved us both a lot of bother, you know, and the Questing Beast would never have come to the lower town after me. Maybe Nimueh would never have made an appearance at all and you’d never have been trapped in that damned tree. She knows she can’t get me when I’m with you.” His voice dropped almost to a whisper then. Arthur curled his fingers around the chainmail in front of him and hauled Merlin closer, far closer than advisable, close enough to bring the mouth that often tormented him within an inch of his own. Merlin swallowed and his breath stuttered across his face. “I don’t care how dangerous it could be. I’d rather be with you.”

Arthur closed his eyes when Merlin raised a hand to cup his jaw, his touch a warm and familiar brand against his skin. His lips parted in anticipation. He knew what was coming, and he knew it would make him an outlaw, but he couldn’t muster the will to withdraw as Merlin pressed still closer, mouth just grazing his bottom lip in something that lacked pressure enough to make it a kiss. Merlin was giving him the chance to move, to change his mind and Arthur felt his eyes sting at the knowledge that Merlin wanted this to be his choice. That he wouldn’t make such an important choice for him.

Arthur swallowed and drew in a stuttering breath as he mustered his courage to do it half an instant before Merlin pulled away, narrow frame tensing, the hand that once cupped his face now falling to grip the sword that Merlin drew in one fluid motion.

Merlin turned to face the looming darkness beyond the glow, moving into an automatic defensive stance, his hand tightening around the hilt of his blade. But nothing moved in the stillness. Arthur made to speak and Merlin held his hand up, silencing him at once. He knew better than to speak when that hand went up; it meant he was concentrating hard and distracting him could be a lethal mistake. His own hand tightened around Carnwennan and a thick tendril of magic wound around his lower leg, squeezing just right and so soothing, and Arthur strangled a sob to death before it could escape, remembering just how close he’d come to doing something he could never take back. Maybe it was a good thing that Merlin had sensed something, that he’d stopped that tender moment from continuing, from extending into something the pair of them would come to regret when faced with their crime in the morning. Maybe it was better that something dangerous approached now, saving Merlin from committing treason for the sake of a commoner, for the sake of someone that might as well have been a walking crime.

Several moments of dead silence passed as Merlin tensed further, eyes searching, his magic pulsating thick around them both in warning, and Arthur had to fight the urge to grip his ruined chainmail tight and bolt. He’d run when Merlin ran and not a moment sooner, or he’d be damned for his cowardice. He was just about to grip a shoulder, to whisper that maybe they should consider leaving, when that pulsing magic wrapped tight around him and deposited him in the tree behind them fast enough to disorient him. Arthur wrapped an arm around the tree trunk before he could topple back out of the branches.

A low growl rumbled through the darkness and Merlin retreated back the smallest step, determination rippling through his narrow, but strong frame. Arthur felt his lungs seize as the Questing Beast stalked out of the gloom and eyed Merlin with the coldest serpentine hunger, forked tongue tasting the air, before its head tipped back and its reptilian gaze fastened upon Arthur. Its mouth gaped in a vengeful hiss. A bolt of lightning struck the earth when the Questing Beast dared to take a step closer. The creature wrenched back and released a vicious snarl. Arthur swallowed as the Questing Beast began circling, attention once more focused upon his master, prepared to tear him apart to get to Arthur.

Just the thought was enough to make him almost sick with dread.

Arthur wasn’t certain how long the two of them circled each other, taking the measure of their opponent. It could have been mere minutes. It could have been an hour or more. All he knew was the fear that gripped his spine tight as the Questing Beast broke the circle, muscles tightening and rippling, powerful frame careening through the air almost too fast for the naked eye to track. Magic alone helped Merlin dodge the attack. His eyes glowed with power as Merlin danced to the side, twirling at a speed that should have been unreachable, and steel aglow with blue flames blurring as the blade swept in a sharp arc and slashed through the serpentine hood of scales that came so close to him. Close enough for fangs to sink through vulnerable flesh had Merlin not been prepared for the attack. Arthur tightened his grip around Carnwennan and drew in an agonised breath as the Questing Beast roared in pain and swiped a monstrous paw through the air, claws sharp.

The sudden and unexpected blow would have cleaved his raven head from his shoulders had Merlin not ducked and rolled to come back up on his feet and swing his blade, slicing across the still bleeding cut left from when Arthur had wounded the creature hours earlier. Normally, innate healing magic would have healed such a small wound hours ago, but the ancient magic dwelling within Carnwennan made that innate magic reluctant to intervene. It was a relief that even such a small blade could have such a lasting effect upon a creature so powerful and dangerous.

Hope bloomed within Arthur then.

Merlin and the Questing Beast continued to dance around each other, movements too fast to be natural and snarling, hissing, taking their rage out on each other. Even so, the Questing Beast never managed to land a solid blow as Merlin danced and twirled away, just quick enough to avoid claw and fang, to avoid the powerful swipe of a tail. Neither being gave an inch to the other; an inch given could so quickly become a mile taken. Their battle of will and rage almost seemed to go on forever, but soon even Merlin proved to be just a man next to such a tireless creature, proved that even the most acclaimed mage in Albion was capable of tiring, of weakening, eyelids now blinking away the sweat that ran hot into his eyes. It was enough to let a paw past his guard and send him careening through the air with a pained shout. Merlin slammed into a tree, sword toppling from his grasp, tired frame crumpling to the ground. Arthur would have jumped from his own tree to get to him had it not been for the hissing face that whirled in his direction and the reptilian eyes that fastened upon him in cold triumph.

Merlin groaned and twitched on the forest floor as claws gouged into the earth. Powerful muscles tensed and rippled an instant before the Questing Beast lunged through the air and closed the distance between it and Arthur, movements too fast to dodge, claws extended and fangs bared. A sphere of magic burst into existence around Arthur, conjured at the hand of his master, who was struggling to his feet now and aiming a desperate and clawed hand at Arthur, expression fierce and protective, molten eyes burning with intent and magic almost bright enough to outshine the sun. Arthur would have been awed at the sight but for the set of paws that collided with the pulsing shield of magic as the monstrous creature, prepared now after its earlier experience, used the shield to its advantage and propelled itself right back at Merlin.

Arthur shouted as Merlin went down beneath the immense weight of the creature, a hoarse scream muffled against fur and scales. He didn’t pause to reconsider, the branch cracking under his weight as Arthur ran forward a step or two before diving, his trust in Carnwennan as hard as stone and as hot as the forge, unwavering. The Questing Beast roared as cold steel sank into furred flesh and Arthur clung on for dear life, gripping both steel and fur, plunging Carnwennan through muscle and sinew again and again until steel grated against bone within. Blood splattered his face over, and over, and over, staining him black. The Questing Beast thrashed violently, almost managing to throw him more than once, but Arthur was determined to remain attached to the creature. He shoved the hilt into his own mouth and gripped hard with his teeth despite the black blood hot against his tongue. His muscles burned with adrenaline and exertion as Arthur hauled himself up, and up, and up behind the hood of scales and wrapped his thighs tighter around the neck than he would ever have gripped a horse. He wrenched Carnwennan from his mouth and gripped the hilt hard. Determination burned within his gut as Arthur plunged the steel down into where he knew the brain would be with force enough to send a jolt of pain through his own shoulder, muscles and sinew protesting the force used.

The creature lurched and staggered to the side, and Arthur twisted the blade with a hard wrench and an enraged snarl. A shudder rippled through the Questing Beast and Arthur rode the creature to the forest floor, where it collapsed with another shudder, stilling after a moment that seemed to stretch forever.

Arthur scrambled clear of the monstrous corpse, dropping his dagger, and stumbled towards the prone figure that failed to move even an inch as Arthur collapsed to his knees beside him. His vision blurred as his hands scrabbled at chainmail stained crimson and pressed hard against two puncture wounds that burned hot and squelched beneath his touch. The name of his master escaped him on a strangled sob, his mouth twisting, his heart wrenching, tears falling hot and wet and tainted black as the unnatural stillness continued beneath his hands. Pain swelled and pulsed inside Arthur, growing, sharpening, burning, and then it broke free in the shape of an agonised howl that came right up from his gut.

The crystal dangling from around his neck glowed in response and released a shockwave of power, magic exploding outwards in time with the sound of his pain and crashing through the Darkling Wood.

Stones crumbled to dust and branches splintered.

Leaves tore themselves asunder upon the wind.

Arthur wasn’t aware of the minutes that passed before Councillor Ares materialised at the heart of a swirling vortex for the second time that night. All he knew was that help had come.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By some miracle, I managed to get this chapter done in the space of three days. Obviously, I must have been a little inspired. Lmao. ANYWAY, I am happy to give you this chapter so soon after the other one.
> 
> As always, feel free to let me know what you think.

Arthur was incoherent with relief and gratitude as Councillor Ares fell upon Merlin with a swiftness that belied the serene calm on his face. Calm and confident hands checked for vital signs of life as Arthur kept the puncture wounds compressed. Arthur watched him sigh with relief through a thick veil of tears that continued to slide down the broad curve of his jaw, disappearing under his chin to drop down upon pale skin. His shoulders quaked hard and uncontrollable. His grief and guilt rolled down his spine in powerful waves. The soft spell incanted was like a breath of fresh air, and he didn’t even flinch when Councillor Ares gripped his shoulder, squeezing, and murmuring, “I’ve put the puncture wounds in stasis. I need to get him back to the castle, Arthur, and I need your help with that. Can you get up?”

“He’ll bleed out –”

“No,” Councillor Ares reassured gently, “no, he won’t. A fragment of time is now frozen around those wounds. The spell will last long enough to get him help, but we must move fast. You need to pull yourself together enough to get him back to the castle and to his bedchamber.”

Arthur, swallowing a relieved sob at the reassurance, nodded and forced himself to his feet as Councillor Ares summoned Carnwennan to his hands without pause. Arthur crouched and slipped his shaking hands beneath the curve of his spine and the bend of his knees. He heaved with a choked grunt and straightened to cradle Merlin against his broader torso, swallowing another sob, pressing his face against raven hair. His scalp was cold against his mouth. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut in fear. He avoided meeting the soft and sympathetic stare Councillor Ares aimed in his direction before a warm hand clamped down on his shoulder, gripping tight enough to ache. He steeled himself against the surge of violent winds as Councillor Ares transported them back to the castle, breaking into a run as soon as his feet touched the stone, his heart thumping with resurging panic as one of the sentries dropped his spear in shock and bolted to alert King Bayard while the other went to summon Gaius.

Arthur ran through countless corridors and up staircase after staircase, heedless of the gasps and choked shouts of alarm when the late night skeleton staff spotted the passing pair, and never once paused to answer their questions as Councillor Ares hurried in his wake. He kicked the door open and burst into the royal chamber. Merlin looked so pale, so small and vulnerable, when Arthur laid him down upon the bed and smoothed a shaking hand over his raven hair. He wanted to press a dozen kisses to the sweep of his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, the tainted shadows sleeping in the corner of his mouth. He might have done so had the door not burst open some moments later, Lady Hunith bursting into the royal chamber, her dark hair unkempt and free, her white nightclothes not even hidden beneath the robe of blue silk she wore.

Guilt sent Arthur stumbling back from the bed as a choked scream of grief escaped her, the burning candle toppling from her grasp, forgotten as Lady Hunith raced towards her boy, Sir Lamorak and Ninianne and the King of Camelot and Mercia hot on her heels.

For once, King Bayard paid him little attention. He pushed past Arthur without even looking askance, throat convulsing around a growing wail of despair, and Arthur took another step back and another, distancing himself from Merlin and his loved ones. He retreated until his bare back hit the cold stone wall and his knees succumbed to his weakness. Hands stained with so much black and red disappeared into his hair and squeezed as Arthur drew his knees up, spine curving, and a second howl of anguish rising in his gorge, catching in the back of his mouth and extinguishing before it could escape. He didn’t watch the others grieve, couldn’t bear to do so, knowing he was to blame for endangering Merlin yet again. He was to blame for most of the new scars marring the expanse of pale skin. He was to blame for the bite from the Questing Beast. Most of what had happened in Camelot since he’d joined the household was because of Arthur, because Arthur refused to kneel for the King, and just let the royal sword swing and cleave through his vulnerable neck.

It was his fault.

Of course, it was his fault. How could he have expected something different when even his birth sparked so much heartache, so much death and destruction? Sparked so much stuff of nightmares? How could he have ever thought himself good enough to deserve his enviable position in the royal household as manservant to the Crown Prince of Camelot and Mercia?

Arthur would never be good enough to serve men like Merlin or Sir Tor, whose goodness rang true, not when the blood in his veins and even the fibres of his soul were cursed since his mother died to bring him into the world. No, for even longer; he’d been cursed since he’d been conceived at the behest of his father, that loathsome and godforsaken demon that once paraded as King over the People, blackening their surname in one fell sweep, and culminating in this moment that ripped at his and others’ insides.

Arthur might have lost himself entirely to the growing chasm of despair inside his chest had the door not burst open once more, revealing the stressed form of Gaius and his bag of medicinal tools and necessities. He scrambled to his feet and almost toppled over in his haste, his heart pounding, his lungs seizing hard as he watched Gaius race to the bed and then he had to tear his gaze away, startled at the force of nature that slammed into his middle in the shape of a weeping girl. Her arms tightened around him like a vice when her cheek came in contact with the soft of his stomach. Her frame went rigid around a sharp gasp, her eyes flaring vivid gold with the force of her magic, and then she melted as Arthur crushed her closer, arms winding tight around her in return as she wept harder. Ninianne crumpled his grasp, quaking, heaving, and somehow the sound of it distracted him from his own pain.

He didn’t tell her it would be alright. He didn’t tell her Merlin would be fine – that Councillor Ares and Gaius would work together to heal him with ease, that he would be up and walking around in no time at all. Arthur could never lie to her – not about something so grave, about her brother, their Merlin. He stroked her tangled mane of copper hair as he watched Gaius and Councillor Ares work together, two pieces to an intricate dance that skimmed the balance between life and death and more, the pair of them muttering to one another as Sir Lamorak consoled Lady Hunith with whispered words and a tight embrace.

King Bayard alone remained separate in his grief. He stood with a rigid spine and kept his regal chin up, but his face had lost all sense of life behind his trimmed beard. It was as though King Bayard was the one that risked passing, heart weakened with a second surge of grief and confused anger, and for a moment Arthur almost pitied the old bastard. But that almost-sentiment crumbled when Arthur remembered that King Bayard could have prevented this from happening before Merlin ever had to face that damned creature. Merlin wouldn’t have to die had King Bayard done his damned job, had he helped the innocent people that petitioned for his help, had he followed the sacred oaths he’d taken upon himself when crowning himself King of Camelot. King Bayard had turned his back on the people that needed him most over of a grudge, proving himself no better than his accursed father, than the man King Bayard claimed to be a lesser man. He was quick to see so much corruption – but never in his own reflection.

Camelot deserved so much better. She deserved better than this wicked and loathsome farce of a ruler, this twisted King that made a nightmare of such ancient and sacred lands. Camelot once stood enshrined within the golden annals of history, where she had been protected at the hands of a long line of ancient monarchs that died loving her down to the marrow of their bones.

Arthur had been named after Artura Pendragon of Great Albion or so Gaius informed him the previous year, the one collecting herbs and the other taking advantage of an hour without chores to be done. His namesake had been an ancient queen that died at the gates of the old castle halfway between Howden and the one used now, but now left in ruins centuries later, her sword in hand and her sorceress a blaze of power at her side until a blade burnished in a dragon’s breath ripped through the protective enchantments laid and felled the practitioner in one crucial instant. It was an instant just long enough to distract the Queen from her close fight with her own opponent and turn the tide of the battle, the fallen Queen considered an ill omen for times to come. Fortunately, her infant son had outlived her, raised under the close and watchful eye of Mór – a Druidic Mage and chieftain of her clan or so Gaius claimed and Arthur had no means of proving or disproving such claims – until Berwyn Pendragon could rebuild the throne, start anew, and bring the heart of the once united realms back to a faint glimmer of her former splendour.

Now, Arthur was certain that fallen queen and her son would have been rolling in their graves had either of them known how dark and twisted the ruling class of Camelot had become in their absence.

“Your Majesty,” said Gaius quietly, breaking the fragile silence that had befallen the royal chamber, gaining himself the attention of all in the room. Councillor Ares was solemn at his side, but there was shocked confusion in his gaze when it landed upon Arthur, as though he couldn’t quite grasp whatever Gaius meant to say next. Gaius raised himself up tall under the sudden weight of the King’s stare and continued despite the obvious grief and regret etched upon his wizened face. “Whatever creature inflicted these wounds has flooded His Highness’ bloodstream with venom and that venom moves now at an alarming rate. There isn’t enough time remaining to craft an antidote. I’m afraid there is nothing more I can do for His Highness now, but make him comfortable as we wait for the inevitable; his fate lies in the hands of the old religion.”

“Kilgharrah would know what to do,” croaked Ninianne from where she remained supported by Arthur, whose arms tightened around her at the confirmation of his own fears and knowledge of the Questing Beast and its terrible bite. She peered over the curve of his elbow, grieving face wet with tears and drained of colour, but her mouth was set in a determined line that reminded him so much of Merlin that it ached to look down at her for a moment. “The Great Dragon has centuries’ worth of knowledge and experience at his beck and call. He must know something that could help Merlin! We need to find him fast!”

_Young Ninianne need not worry any longer; I have come. I wait in the courtyard._

Arthur startled and clutched his head at the loud rumble reverberating through his head that no one else seemed to hear. It was as though a thunder storm had developed within him. He almost expected to feel lightning course through his limbs. Kilgharrah said nothing more, leaving him alone, and Arthur stammered that the Great Dragon had come and waited for them below in the courtyard. No one in the royal chamber was surprised that he just seemed to know such a thing, not even the ashen King, and Arthur realised then that entering minds was a known skill of the Great Dragon. Surprise flickered through Arthur when no one made to move, but Ninianne as she broke free of his embrace, hastening to her father, who gave him an urgent stare that Arthur found himself obeying in an instant as he bolted from the royal chamber. He almost tumbled down the nearest staircase in his haste, but managed to catch his balance at the last minute, his shoulder aching now after his intense ordeal with the Questing Beast.

Arthur reached the courtyard in record time to find Kilgharrah waiting, just as promised. Red scales seemed to have dulled since Arthur last saw them. Kilgharrah looked down at him in quiet expectation.

“The Questing Beast has bitten Merlin!”

“I know,” Kilgharrah answered without pause. The expectation in his expression softened a little, his large head tilting, peering down at Arthur as though he were an intricate puzzle that he wanted to unravel. “Not even those lost in the mists of Avalon are unaware of what happened in the Darkling Wood tonight. The ripple of your grief was immense. I suppose you’ve come for advice, young Pendragon.” Kilgharrah stretched one wing, and then the other, settling back on his thick and powerful haunches as Arthur swallowed against the nerves writhing in his stomach. He dared not speak a word lest the Great Dragon changed his mind and took flight instead of helping, instead of making sure Merlin lived to see the morning. Arthur felt a chasm of fear open in his chest as Kilgharrah looked to the ceiling of stars and moonlight overhead and sighed before looking back down at Arthur, weary, troubled and uncertain. “His life can be spared...but there must be a price paid: a life saved for a life taken. This is not a choice to be made on an impulse,” the rumble of his voice dropped to a murmur. “Countless Pendragons have made that mistake in the past.”

“There is no choice to be made here,” Arthur snapped despite the chill that raced down his spine and the lump developing in his throat. He remained rigid and upright when he wanted nothing more than to sink to his knees. “I’m the reason this is happening, so I’ll be the reason it comes to an end. Who must I turn to for help, the Priestesses on the Isle of the Blessed?”

“Four and twenty years ago, that would have been my answer, but Nimueh stole the cup of life when she fled from Uther Pendragon during the purge. It resides with her now in the birth place of magic, deep in the Valley of Fallen Kings.”

“I need you to take me there.”

Arthur met the golden stare despite the growing urge to cower, to kneel before the unspoken power, but soon Kilgharrah bowed his head and crouched low, extending one immense leg in offer. His heart pounding and his stomach knotting, Arthur darted forward and scrambled up, refusing to look down at the cobblestones growing more distant with each moment that passed. He kept his attention fastened upon the red scales beneath him and soon found himself astride the Great Dragon. His hands wrapped tight around the spine protruding millimetres from his own manhood. Arthur could do this. He knew he could do this. He just needed to keep his eyes closed and he’d be fine. Of course, he’d be fine. His hands became vices when wings fanned out and powerful muscles propelled Kilgharrah and Arthur into the air. His stomach lurched and vomit rose in his gorge. Arthur forced it back down despite the burning, acidic taste at the back of his throat that wanted so much to escape. He refused to let his own fears ruin this moment now that he meant to right the wrong done to Merlin.

It seemed as though the two of them were in the air for an eternity, but Arthur knew that was his mind playing tricks upon him. It was still dark when Kilgharrah landed in a clearing just large enough to welcome them. A narrow entrance to a cave sat a few feet away, concealed in part with bushes and a large boulder, and Arthur ignored the disoriented wobble in his knees as he moved towards the entrance, Kilgharrah requesting that he tread with care because the Crystal Cave was sacred.

Arthur took the request to heart as his nerves acclimatised to being back on solid ground and squeezed through the narrow entrance, the span of his shoulders almost too broad to fit through the gap. His fingertips scraped over biting stone and a tingle of something familiar raced through his skin. It raised the fine hairs spread out across his frame, and it made him wonder whether this was what it felt like to come home after a lifetime away, his chest warming, his spine melting in welcome. His hands longed to grasp something or someone intangible. Arthur swallowed hard at the sensation and blinked to clear his vision as the narrow entranced broadened into a wide cavern that seemed too immense to be contained beneath the earth.

A pair of tears slipped down his face as that feeling of being home sharpened inside his chest and a crystal embedded in the stone wall nearest him began to glow. It exuded the most gentle and serene blue he’d ever seen before, and then another crystal glowed and another, crystals waking up throughout the cave as he stepped deeper and deeper until the cave grew so illuminated that the vibrant glow embraced Arthur.

“These crystals haven’t glowed since the night you became a commoner,” a hushed voice mused from behind Arthur, who whirled around at the sound and reached for an immortal blade no longer present at his side. His heart hammered in his throat as the woman from that long ago banquet faced him once more, clad in a simple set of robes the colour of blood. She was older now, no longer appearing as young, though there was still a faint glimmer of the young woman she must have been once...before his father walked into her life and ruined her good name...before his mother and father faced Vortigern with Nimueh and the powerful force of her magic at their side. Back when she’d been a trusted advisor to the Queen of Cornwall and a revered High Priestess of the Old Religion. A gleam of madness sparked into existence in her blue eyes. “I never thought I’d see them glow again.”

“You’re welcome then.”

Nimueh tilted her head and raked him with her intense gaze, murmuring, “I knew you would come, you know. I’ve known for some time that I need do nothing but wait and we would end up where we are now, you here to offer your life for his. You are...more like your mother than you know.” Something almost tender bloomed in place of the madness for a single instant. Her hand trembled at her side before curling into a fist with whitened knuckles and then her mouth curled in a wolfish smile that set Arthur on edge. Whatever softness dwelled within her was gone now, replaced with sharpened madness and resentment bitter enough to curdle even the freshest milk. Her eyes glittered. “But your mettle had to be tested and there was no one left to test you – not since the other Priestesses left the ancient traditions fade from practice. Let themselves forget the practices over time. I couldn’t just sit around and do nothing; the Once and Future King can’t take his place on the throne without earning it first.”

“Don’t call me that.” A shiver went down his spine at the title that dripped from her tongue like so much poison. It made his skin crawl in fear, at complete odds to the soothing warmth the Crystal Cave instilled within his chest. It took a moment to realise this was the fate that Councillor Ares meant whenever he spoke to him in private. “I’m not a King, and certainly not this once and future figure you speak of.” 

Nimueh just smirked at him. She said nothing more as she moved past him and stepped further into the cave, moving over to a raised platform of stone that he hadn’t noticed a moment or so ago. Arthur watched her glide through the cave as a feather would glide downstream. Her hand wrapped around a gold and gleaming chalice as vibrant as the magic that drenched the earth and Arthur recognised the design from a charcoal sketch within the accounts he’d read – the accounts that continued right up until the evening his father was beheaded. It was the same chalice his mother drank from the night Arthur was conceived all those years ago.

Just the sight of it made his stomach knot and heave with so much unease, but he’d come to help his master, not sow seeds in a barren field and he knew there was a difference between saving a life existing and creating a new one from nothing. He refused to let his fears control him.

“Come here,” urged the sorceress and Arthur followed the command without an ounce of hesitation. He would do anything, if it meant Merlin would live to see the coming morning, if it meant Merlin would live to inherit the throne and build a better future from the ashes of the past. Camelot deserved a ruler that would cherish her until their last breath and Arthur knew Merlin was the one. He squeezed his eyes shut at that knowledge, and wished he could be there to see his master kneel before the throne, wished he could be there to see his expression turn solemn as his lips shaped the sacred oaths to the people. He swallowed the ache in his throat and opened his eyes to see Nimueh smirking, just tipping her head back as her golden magic bloomed in her gaze, words of power tumbling from her tongue in a cadence that rose and fell like music. The ancient stone overhead rolled aside with a low rumble that shook him to his core, revealing the distant ceiling of stars that stretched beyond the scope of his vision.

Nimueh looked at him now, the chalice raised high in the air, as power surged through the Crystal Cave in a thick wave, raising the fine hairs across his frame in an instant and chilling his blood. Dark clouds pregnant with rain manifested overhead and broke open with a flash of lightning, a rumble of thunder, and a sudden torrential downpour. Arthur raised his chin as the rain soaked him to the bone, wet and chilling, unforgiving. Blood ran down his face, over the curve of a shoulder, and down to drip from his fingertips until black and red pooled at his feet. He shivered as the wind howled overhead and tore down into the cave with little regard for the people within. Soon enough it was over, the rain ebbing and the wind fading away, the clouds nothing more than a memory. Nimueh waved a hand over the chalice and Arthur watched as it sealed over, trapping the rainwater within.

“You needn’t worry,” Nimueh explained when she sensed his unease, a small smile curling across her mouth. It made the wrinkles at the corners stand out. “The spell will fade when you raise the chalice to his mouth. The venom will no longer be an issue come morning, and the chalice will return to me once Emrys has drained it.”

Arthur jerked back in surprise at the utterance of the familiar name and almost fell from the stone platform as he stared at Nimueh in mounting incomprehension. His shaking hands clamped tight around the chalice now in his grasp; the rainwater within sloshed hard around the interior. A lead weight settled in his stomach. Turning, heart pounding, lungs seizing, Arthur fled from the Crystal Cave without a backward glance. He burst out into the open air and almost ran into the boulder before he changed course, darting, stumbling in his haste, his chest heaving as forced himself to drag in breath after breath. He wasn’t going to devolve into a puddle of panic in front of the Great Dragon waiting, watching, golden eyes anxious and more than a little aggrieved as he spotted the chalice in his grasp.

The familiar name tumbled over and over inside his head. It was painful to hear, and twice as painful to realise it made far too much sense, now that his mind started to whip through his memories in search of conversations with his master, who drew charcoal sketches of coronets for a consort he didn’t have, who avoided the subject of Emrys where possible unless someone else forced the matter – people like Pellinore, who had no idea that Merlin and Emrys were the same man.

Councillor Ares knew. Of course, that damned treasonous snake knew and he’d taunted him with that knowledge, taunted him with that promise of a future he hadn’t known he’d wanted. That future was in shreds now. No longer would he be parting his thighs to welcome Emrys inside. No longer would he be enthroned beside him. He’d sacrificed that farce of a future he hadn’t wanted to believe in return for the healing of his generous and loving master, only to learn the two were one and the same. Arthur stumbled and fell to his knees hard. An ugly noise caught in his throat before he forced himself to his feet and to continue, putting one foot in front of the other, forcing himself to scramble up the scaled leg that Kilgharrah extended in silence.

For once, the flight failed to affect Arthur, failed to push past the thudding in his chest. He was soon lost to his thoughts as Kilgharrah soared over land that stretched on and on in almost complete darkness, but for the faint light of the moon that drifted in and out from behind thick clouds that moved with lazy abandon across the night sky, threatening a light rain but never following through. He wasn’t nauseated. He wasn’t quivering with terror. He was just existing, numb, wanting so much to feel something beyond this...this sudden nothing, but unable. Unable until he stepped foot into the royal chamber and saw him there, pale and unmoving, but for the faintest rise and fall of his now naked and bound torso, the white of his bandages marred crimson. Arthur drew in a shaking breath at the sight of him and almost choked on the force of the multitude of emotions coursing through him.

Arthur stumbled towards the bed without once pausing to consider the King still standing in the corner, staring down at his young and vulnerable nephew, and climbed onto the bed to ease himself behind Merlin. Shivers wracked his frame for a moment or two as he struggled to make Merlin more comfortable, braced against his torso, head propped up against his shoulder and neck. He forced his hand still as he raised the chalice to that pale mouth and watched as the spell keeping rainwater contained faded away, leaving him tip the restorative into the mouth waiting. A hush came over the room as a stroking thumb coaxed Merlin to swallow mouthful after mouthful until nothing of the restorative remained in the chalice.

The chalice faded from his grasp with a faint shimmer.

Nothing happened for a long and painful minute that pulled at his chest without mercy, and then Merlin shifted in his embrace. Nothing much – just a slow turn of his head as he released a long sigh that carried his name. It was the first word he’d spoken since being bitten. Arthur swallowed the lump growing in his throat as a warming cheek pressed against the base of his neck and warm breath ghosted across his chilled skin. Raven hair tickled his chin just so. His arms tightened around Merlin. He didn’t acknowledge King Bayard as he remained attached to his master, unwilling to move, to put more distance between them now that so little time remained to him – so little time to get his affairs in order, to speak to the ones that mattered most to Arthur, to whisper against the shell of a large ear that he would have...that he would have kissed Merlin in the Darkling Wood had the Questing Beast not interrupted them.

That he’d wanted to.

He’d wanted to kiss Merlin so damned much. He never stopped wanting, not even when he was asleep, where his dreams led him down onto hard forest floors cushioned with fallen leaves; onto soft mattresses that sank beneath his weight as Merlin kissed him senseless and dizzy, hands grasping, needing, too desperate for words.

A wave of awed relief washed over the room as Arthur cradled his now sleeping master close, silent and unmoving, unable to meet the eyes of anyone in the room as a thousand forsaken dreams and wishes crashed through aching heart. He didn’t watch them come over, squeeze an arm or kiss a forehead in love and relief and move away, retreating to their own chambers at the insistence of Councillor Ares and Gaius. He didn’t watch King Bayard give him a sweeping, measured glance laced with a hint of suspicion as he recovered in part from his earlier despair. He watched nothing but the barrage of images that raced across his inner eye as Merlin started to squirm between his thighs. Merlin shuffled still closer, a slender and strong arm curling, wrapping around a much thicker thigh. Pale fingers fisted the fabric of his trousers.

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut as his vision stung, wetness welling, knowing he’d never feel this again. Swallowing, Arthur let himself indulge in equal parts pain and pleasure for a moment that stretched too long before extricating himself from behind Merlin with the gentlest care, disappearing into the antechamber once he ensured that Merlin was warm and comfortable beneath the blankets.

If he was going to die come morning, then he needed to get a mountain of things done, but first he needed to scrub himself clean with water from the ewer, a thick bar of soap, and a cloth. His skin ached and his myriad miniscule cuts from his earlier encounter with the thicket stung when he was finished. Then came the nightmare of dressing; Arthur selected one of the white tunics that Merlin favoured and one of newest trousers Gwen tailored for him. He donned the blue riding jacket that Merlin gave him the previous midwinter over his tunic and let his fingertips caress the soft leather, his mouth curling in a tremulous smile. He pulled on a pair of boots that gleamed with newness – another gift from his master, somewhat recent and unexpected but no less appreciated than the riding jacket. He combed his hair until it was soft and fine, free of even a single tangle, and returned to the royal chamber with a weight in his step.

Merlin was awake now, struggling to dismiss the tired fog, blinking slow and unseeing at him until at last his vision cleared. The warm and relieved smile that bloomed across his face at the sight of Arthur threatened to make his heart stop. Swallowing, Arthur crossed the room and settled next to his master, the curve of his hip too close to a pale hand to be allowed. His pulse fluttered when fingertips grazed that curve. He snared that hand and pressed it harder and closer, heart thumping, stomach knotting, and forced a smile when Merlin blinked at him in surprise.

“Sorry,” muttered Arthur, his grip gentling, dropping his head to look down at his knee and wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed with Merlin and kiss him until morning, until the balance of life and death claimed him. He made no move to do so, of course, knowing it wouldn’t be fair to let Merlin think he was giving in to the desire ever simmering between them. He looked up at Merlin. “I didn’t mean to be so rough.”

“No need to apologise. It doesn’t matter,” mumbled his master, surprise easing into a smile laced with so much affection and forgiveness that Arthur swallowed at the sight and squirmed in place. Tired blue eyes roamed over the riding jacket encasing his chest and down to the new trousers and unworn boots. His smile fractured a little. “You’re all dressed up. Are you going somewhere?”

“I have something I need to do, but I’ll be back as quick as I can.”

“Can’t it wait until morning?”

“No,” Arthur answered at once, not quite able to smile in the face of that broken one, knowing it was going to be a lot more than broken come morning. Knowing Merlin was never going to forgive him for what he’d done. “I’m afraid it can’t wait that long, but I need you to know something before I go, Sire. Something important.” Unable to stop himself from doing so, Arthur slid his hand up a familiar arm and let his palm rest against the sharp curve of a jaw, just as Merlin did to him earlier, the skin not quite warm enough beneath his touch. His thumb grazed the corner of his mouth. His voice hushed to something soft and more than a little tentative, something secretive and hinting at a fraction of the barrage of emotions coursing through him. He knew Merlin must have recognised and understood those emotions a long time ago. “I would have kissed you in the Darkling Wood. I was going to. I wanted to kiss you... _so_ much...and I regret that I didn’t.”

“But you don’t have to regret. All of that can be remedied.” Merlin raised his hand to cover the hand cradling his jaw, frowning, troubled and concerned and anxious. He interlaced their fingers and squeezed until it ached to remain in his grasp. Arthur blinked away the resurgent sting, leaning in to press a quick kiss to a pale cheek before breaking free, choking on an agonised noise as weakened hands scrabbled at the sleeve of his riding jacket and tried to pull him back. “Arthur, don’t make me resort to using magic to keep you close,” continued his master, tone more than a little desperate, edged with panic, and the sound of it made Arthur pause when he reached the door at last. “Please...I just...don’t understand. Why are you so upset? Have I done something wrong?”

“I’m leaving,” croaked Arthur, heart thumping, knowing it was best to confess it quick like snapping the shaft from an arrowhead. A shiver raced down his spine as his not-quite-a-lie silenced Merlin in an instant. He looked as though he couldn’t quite grasp what was being said. “I’ll be gone come morning, but please...please don’t ever think you’re at fault or that you did something wrong, not for a moment. I made this choice and I made it because I had to, because I thought it for the best and I know you don’t understand right now, but you will. You’ll come to know what I mean soon enough.”

“Arthur,” Merlin said as Arthur struggled not to run from the royal chamber like a coward instead of facing the matter at hand. Merlin sounded too small and vulnerable as he looked across the room at Arthur, gaze imploring, apple bobbing, and mouth trembling for a moment as he swallowed against the noticeable sorrow welling in familiar blue eyes. “Do you hate being here that much?”

“It isn’t a question of hate.” His distressed expression softened with quiet pride as Arthur implored him to understand. “I won’t be here come morning, but I will be your willing servant forever, Sire. I know the future of Camelot couldn’t rest in better hands.”


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to everyone still reading, and to everyone who left a kudos! I appreciate it.
> 
> Here is another chapter for you folks.
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think!

His palms damp with sweat and his stomach churning, Arthur escaped his master as quick as possible. He didn’t wait long enough for Merlin to respond. Nor did he wait long enough for Merlin to make a foolish attempt to heave himself out of bed despite the sutures on his chest and cross the room to prevent Arthur from going, to wrap weakened arms around him and press close, to seduce and cajole him into opening up with his stupid quivering mouth and those infuriating, intoxicating eyes. His master knew just how to use the dip of his eyelashes and the curve of his mouth to his advantage. Or even just the touch of his hand. It came from years of training, of learning to dance through social circle after social circle, of learning to spot the deference between cold and cunning snakes in the grass and loyal hounds malleable to his needs.

Arthur suspected he might be the latter, and that was fine; he’d come to rather like the hounds once the lot started softening towards him. Having less influence from the nobles and the King, the most recent litter were the fondest of him. Merlin often let him spend an hour or two with the litter, allowed them to pad and tumble all over a delighted Arthur, pushing soft wet noses into his face and whining whenever he stopped petting one in favour of another. It seemed to amuse his master something fierce. Merlin even allowed him to name the runt of the litter – this frail little thing that would have been drowned at the start had Merlin not put his foot down and demanded that the pup be kept regardless of size.

The kennel master wasn’t fool enough to argue with the Prince of Camelot and Mercia. What a relief that was. Arthur couldn’t stomach the thought of some harsh and unforgiving brute drowning the little thing, his little Cabal.

Arthur went to the kennel first. He knew it was ridiculous that his chest ached to leave Cabal behind...but he also knew Cabal wasn’t just some hound. He was more special than his larger and stronger brothers and sisters. Cabal knew when he was hurting, knew when he needed a bundle of warmth nuzzling against his face – not demanding, never demanding, but giving so much attention and affection. Arthur crept past the snoring kennel master on silent feet and swallowed a pained noise when he found the pup awake and waiting, forepaws pressed against the stall door, whining at the sight of him. He scooped the growing pup into his arms and smiled through a wave of grief when Cabal nuzzled against his face, pressing nose to nose, lapping there with a wet tongue when Arthur managed to choke on an affectionate chuckle.

Arthur held the pup aloft once he managed to calm down and ran a critical eye over him. Cabal had grown quite a bit since he’d started giving him an extra feeding each morning; a boiled egg here and there; a few scraps of pork he’d nicked from the kitchens when Audrey wasn’t looking; and chunks of bread slathered in honey. Cabal wasn’t thickening as much as the rest of the litter, but that wasn’t a bad thing. At least Arthur didn’t think so.

Honestly, the narrow frame and long limbs reminded him of his master, and made him wonder what Merlin might have looked like without rigorous training to interfere with his growth. He might have been a sprinter rather than a fighter. Just like Cabal – who grinned around his lolling tongue. Arthur managed another brighter smile and brought the growing pup back in close, cradling him against face and shoulder, letting Cabal control their interactions after that.

“I hope you aren’t so companionable with the kennel master, pup,” Arthur muttered as Cabal licked and nuzzled him over and over, snuffling, letting out soft whines against his skin...but never loud enough to wake the kennel master. “You know he doesn’t like us much. He thinks we both deserve a drowning, but soon enough you’ll prove that imbecile wrong, won’t you? You’ll show him that you’re a swift and brave, loyal and loving, and all those good things that His Highness favours.” Arthur swallowed when Cabal whined a little louder, pink tongue licking a stripe along his cheek. He scratched the pup between his ears and pressed a kiss against his furred little forehead. “What about me? I’m not so sure about me, but that doesn’t matter much now. You’re the important one here and His Highness is going to take such good care of you when I can’t anymore,” continued Arthur, his breath hitching in his chest again at the thought of leaving, at the thought of abandoning Cabal and Hengroen and Merlin and Sir Tor and his family.

Not to mention the thought of facing the fate waiting for him in the antechamber alone.

Arthur knew, of course, that all men faced death alone in truth...but he’d have liked to hold a hand or feel one carding through his hair. He detested being alone. It gave him far too much time to get lost in his head and he knew that wasn’t the best place to be, not when his mind kept racing, tripping and falling over the same stumbling blocks over and over until he was bruised and bloodied and aching, too tired to keep going. Arthur wasn’t certain he could face death alone and be as brave as Merlin and other men might be. He wasn’t certain he could do it with his chin up and his emotions trapped in place. He wasn’t certain he wouldn’t crumble into terrified pieces once he disappeared into the antechamber and sank to the floor, back pressed tight against the door, providing the support he couldn’t give to himself.

Arthur looked down at the pup, considering, and decided on the spot that Cabal would come with him to the antechamber. Cabal was more than enough comfort for a man on his deathbed. He told Cabal to be quiet and scratched him between the ears when Cabal became so, and then he crept past the kennel master all over again.

Now, it was time to visit Hengroen and Llamrei in the stables. He didn’t speak to the large charger or the handsome mare, but embraced the two horses one at a time, his heart in his throat whenever the stable hands stirred in their sleep. Cabal remained a quiet presence in the crook of his other arm. Arthur spent several minutes with both Hengroen and Llamrei – assuring the former that Merlin would never stop looking after him and asking the latter to look after Merlin in his absence. Llamrei pushed her head against his shoulder and huffed against his riding jacket in quiet acquiescence. Hengroen lipped at his ear and Arthur swallowed a pained chuckle, knowing that was the last time.

Arthur made the slow trek back to his childhood home then and was stopped at the gates separating the lower town from the citadel. The guardsmen looked at the pup grinning at them from the crook of his elbow and then looked at Arthur, speculating, before the pair turned a blind eye and let him through after clapping him on the back like a comrade. He knew Ninianne must have spread word of what happened in the Darkling Wood as soon as she knew Merlin would live to see the morning, and that thought made him stiff with discomfort. He’d done nothing worth praising. He’d just done what he had to do. He’d not even been brave, but blinded with anger, and he knew from watching Merlin training with the men under his command that attacking in anger wasn’t a wise move in a dangerous situation. He knew it caused people to make stupid mistakes that could get them killed in an instant. That thought repeated over and over in his head as Arthur closed the distance between himself and the ruined remains of his childhood home.

No one was inside. It would have been too dangerous to sleep there, with shards of glass strewn across the floor and splintered wood poking the air like so many spears. Arthur flicked his attention towards the forge, which was still standing and functional as a temporary place to rest. The forge was cooling now, no longer the inferno it would be during the day, and Arthur slipped inside to see Tom and Gwen curled up with each other on the hard floor. Elyan dozed in a chair, clad still in his chainmail and blue livery, hand curled loose around the hilt of his sword.

The sight of them being without a proper home because of him sent a sharp ache shooting through his chest. Cabal whined and pushed his nose up to his face, wet tip just grazing his jaw, warm and soft and tickling, but Arthur couldn’t find the affectionate chuckle that should have risen up in response. A cold burst of terror pulsed through him at the thought of Tom waking up, fisting his collar, and throwing him out the door for endangering them with his presence in their lives earlier that night. His throat seized up hard and tight at the thought of no longer being wanted. Greater panic crawled inside his lungs and made them protest until Arthur clutched at the base of his throat and Cabal started barking, the sound loud and jarring, jolting the figures that had slept in peace awake. His trouble breathing just intensified until firm hands framed his face and a familiar voice started speaking, her gentle tones coaxing him back to a safe place with careful determination.

Somehow, his breath returned and Arthur managed to remain standing despite the weakness in his knees. He threw an arm around his sister and crushed her close. The arms that Gwen wrapped around him were just as crushing. A tangle of knotted curls pressed warm and familiar against his face and Arthur squeezed his eyes shut as emotion surged through his frame, too intense and powerful to be ignored. Cabal whined and squirmed where he was trapped in place until Arthur relented and released the pup, letting him jump down and acquaint himself with the forge, with the older man on the floor – who beamed in delight when Cabal bounded closer on inquisitive paws.

Gwen withdrew enough to look at him and searched his face, gentle hand now carding through his hair, a warm wave of concern washing across her face. Looking at her was agonising, knowing that concern would soon be replaced with an emotion far deeper, heavier, and more unbearable.

Grief was no trifling thing to be scorned at.

“Arthur, are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost! Is that because of what happened with that creature?” Her hand fell to touch his forehead and check for a fever before dropping to cup his cheek. “The whole guardhouse knows what you did for the Prince, you know, and I’m sure all of Camelot will know before tomorrow evening; news of brave deeds travels fast. I knew you were meant for so much more than the forge,” said his sister, her mouth curling in a warm smile that sent pain lancing through his chest.

Arthur struggled to muster a smile of his own and ended up grimacing, his heart a lump in his throat and his stomach churning, his expression pained at the reminder of that future he couldn’t have. He drew Gwen into another crushing embrace – this one far tighter than the last. The embrace was so tight she gasped in muted pain and Arthur released her at once, his frantic hands shaking, roaming over her face and curls and shoulders until he was sure Gwen was unharmed. He shook his head when Gwen asked what the matter was and moved past her, moved towards his brother dozing in the chair once more, and poked him awake.

Elyan didn’t question the sudden hug, and Arthur was more relieved than he could express. He wasn’t sure that he could leave, that he’d be able to distance himself from the forge, if he explained what happened earlier. What he’d done in the Crystal Cave.

It was better that no one learned the truth.

Knowing would just make the imminent future so much harder to bear, for both him and his family, his dearest ones that deserved better than the pain Arthur would soon inflict upon them. There wasn’t a choice to be made when Merlin was endangered. He would have offered his own life in some other manner some day, and had done so before, but going to the Crystal Cave was...deliberate...planned where the rest were a far greater impulse. The decision was as simple as breathing, as looking at his master, as wishing for a better tomorrow. It was less a choice and more a requirement – one that Merlin and his dearest ones would find unforgiveable come morning, and he couldn’t blame them.

Arthur wasn’t sure he could have forgiven someone who dared to make the same exchange for him. Already, he felt at fault for too many lives lost. He couldn’t bear to be the reason for another.

The tight and lingering embrace from Tom was almost more painful than the ones from his brother and sister, and he couldn’t even explain why. Maybe it was because Tom had become his father with such ease over the long years he’d lived in their house. Maybe it was the faint tremble of a hand against his hair or the hard press of a kiss against his forehead as though Tom knew it was the last time he’d see Arthur, as though he knew what he’d done and what the morning would bring, as though he knew Arthur would never again come home.

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut at the thought and swallowed when Cabal started whining on the floor, paws pressing against his lower leg, so blatant in his need to give attention and affection that Arthur ached something fierce.

Arthur withdrew, swallowing down his agony, and forced himself to smile as he scooped up the little thing. He scratched between his ears and made his escape, murmuring that his master would ensure the house was fixed up as soon as possible. Merlin would never stand for them being without a home for long, he knew, and for that he was more relieved than he could say.

Cabal nuzzled at his face as Arthur hastened back to the castle. A deceptive comfort wrapped around them despite the approaching morning, despite the faintest shift in hues at the horizon. He still needed to speak with Sir Tor, and to return the crystal to his dear friend and former suitor, though it would ache to part with it. A muffled grumble reached him when Arthur knocked on the solid door, Cabal squirming in his grasp, eager to be released and greet the new man that made Arthur smile despite the ache in his chest. Sir Tor, clad in naught but white bandages spotted with blood and a red tunic, blinked at him through a haze of exhaustion before attempting to sit up right as Arthur let the door press closed behind him.

“Please don’t go to the trouble,” said Arthur, voice quiet in the darkness as he let Cabal go. He listened to the patter of small paws across the stone and felt the ache in his chest flare, hot and sharp, knowing he would have been denied the chance to hear the patter of small of feet in the distant future regardless of the coming morning. Arthur crossed the bedchamber, the space far smaller than the royal chamber, but no less handsome and sank down upon the edge of the bed with a hesitant smile. He made no move to light the taper on the bedside locker. Sir Tor watched him scoop up the pup from the floor and deposit the eager thing on the bed. He scratched the pup between the ears before Cabal scrambled up to the pillows and greeted Sir Tor with a lap of his tongue and a snuffle. It distracted him long enough for Arthur to reach up and undo the knot securing the crystal around his neck. “Tor,” he said quietly, the utterance snaring his attention at once, “I came to return this to you. I’m sorry for not returning it sooner; I know how much it means to you.”

“I know what you did.”

“What?” Swallowing, Arthur looked at the man that could have become his lover were it not for the suspicions and hatred of the King, were it not for the insurmountable boundaries between them. Knowledge burned across familiar features in the dark. Arthur dropped his gaze and stared down at his lap, squeezing his wrist until the bones within protested. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Please don’t make yourself a liar now,” said Sir Tor, reaching forward to rescue the wrist from his forceful grasp, running a gentle hand over where the scar was hidden beneath fabric. Arthur stomped down on the emotions that rose to the surface, knowing there was no way to reassure the man looking at him now, no way to deny the truth without dishonouring them both. “You aren’t the one person in the realm that read what your father left behind. I read those accounts too, you know, and I knew what you did the moment father told me what happened...told me of the fatal bite and His Highness’ miraculous restoration. You made a deal with the sorceress.”

“You can’t claim your own actions would have been different.”

“No,” Sir Tor agreed as he drew Arthur closer with a gentle tug, and then roughened fingertips were grazing the back of his neck and redoing the knot that once secured the crystal there. Arthur breathed in hard and sharp at the pained grimace that flickered across familiar features before Sir Tor withdrew, gaze softening, saddening, almost hollowing. His scars seemed twice as grave. “But I’m not prepared for you to not be here.”

“Tor,” croaked Arthur, relieved when his friend didn’t withdraw too far, relieved that his renewed warmth lingered against his skin. His skin tingled at the touch. “You know I wish we’d met sooner, don’t you? I could have spent the rest of this life with you and regretted nothing. I’d have been content.”

“Only content? Not quite the blinding happiness I’d have hoped for, but I suppose that doesn’t matter anymore.” The ghost of a smile bloomed into being. Gentle fingers tangled in his hair. “I’d have taken a safe marriage with pleasure. I’d take it faster than I’d take the future as it stands now; you were made for something better, Arthur, something far better than what you’ve chosen to do tonight and the united realms will be the lesser for the loss of you.”

“Tor –”

“Why on earth are you blushing? I’m just telling you the truth.” Sir Tor sighed and tugged him still closer, and Arthur felt his eyes fluttering closed in anticipation of another kiss...perhaps one deep and lingering, a testament to how Sir Tor felt about him. Instead he found himself flopping down on the mattress beside him. Arthur blinked up at his former suitor, frowning, confusion rippling through him until Sir Tor wrapped his good arm around him and pulled him close, right up against his good side. Face flushing deeper, Arthur buried his face in a tunic that carried the faintest hints of sweat and sleep, and let Sir Tor hold him as his heart thumped in his chest. Arthur closed his eyes as Sir Tor ran careful fingers through his hair, and Cabal curled up on the taut belly, close enough for Arthur to reach out and stroke him too whenever he needed to. “Do you want to stay here until...?”

“I can’t.” The confession escaped small and vulnerable. His lip quivered before Arthur bit it hard enough to hurt and it started behaving, stiffening, unwilling to show an even greater display of weakness. “I told His Highness I’d be back from these _errands_ as quick as I could and that I’d be leaving come morning, so I want to...to spend some time near him before I...before the morning comes.”

Sir Tor squeezed him closer, head turning, and pressed his face against his hair. A hand soothed down the length of his spine over and over, and Arthur wondered whether this was what it would have been like to be married. Whether this was what his life could have been like had certain circumstances been different. Sleeping beside Sir Tor would have been so much more than nice, so much more than welcome – as would waking up beside him. Arthur could imagine how affection and sleep would soften the scarring, making the older man seem younger and far less frightening at first glance. It wasn’t hard to see why Merlin had chosen to be with Sir Tor in his youth. Despite his scarring and his unquestionable swordsmanship, Sir Tor was a gentle man and was sure to be an even gentler lover. Merlin deserved someone who’d treat him like he mattered more than the united realms...like he mattered more than his title and his distant future. He deserved to wake up to that each morning, and maybe Merlin would wake up to that person again someday, whenever Merlin managed to pull himself back together and move on from Arthur, from the few scattered and painful memories left in his wake.

Arthur fisted the red tunic pressing against his face and swallowed thickly, biting back the small sob that rose in his throat at the thought of Merlin leaving him behind for the last time. One day, Merlin wasn’t going to remember him. He wasn’t going to remember what Arthur looked like first thing in the morning or what Arthur sounded like when he was laughing into his shoulder. What it felt like to hold him close. He might even forget how much he’d once cared or that he’d cared at all. That thought alone was almost too painful to consider, but Arthur couldn’t assume Merlin would put those memories of him somewhere warm and safe once he was gone. He couldn’t assume Merlin would revisit those memories whenever he felt the need. He wasn’t fool enough to think such a thing was possible – even for a sorcerer as powerful as the Prince of Camelot and Mercia.

The mixed scent of sweat and sleep helped Arthur pull himself together, his grip easing, and his chest expanding further as Sir Tor continued to run a soothing hand along the curve of his spine. Neither of them broke the new silence, but took advantage of the chance to hold and be held for a while...until Arthur rose with a mumbled apology, hand braced against the mattress as he looked down at his former suitor, who couldn’t quite look at him in return as the faintest shimmer of tears welled. Arthur kissed the tip of his nose on an impulse...and then the long scars decorating his face until Sir Tor quivered and grasped at his wrist and squeezed until it ached just so.

“You should have come to me first. You should have told me your plan. I would have offered mine in his place in an instant.” That grasping hand slid up, up, up to grip his shoulder and then up to cradle his jaw with a tenderness that made Arthur quake right down to his bones. Sir Tor released a tremulous breath. “You know I would have done anything – _anything_ – to keep you both safe from harm!”

Arthur shook his head hard and sharp, squeezing his eyes shut against the quiet desperation aimed at him. It was unbearable to hear that promise from a man so noble.

He would never have let Sir Tor make such a sacrifice. Camelot and Mercia and even the rest of Albion needed more decent men like him. Albion could never part with decent men like Merlin and Sir Tor, but it could live forever without Arthur. He knew that deep down in his soul – no matter what Councillor Ares believed about his former future, about his place as the Once and Future King, his place on the throne beside Merlin. He’d taken that future and thrown it to the floor, and now the broken shards crunched underfoot and pierced his skin with cruel intent as Arthur took step after step towards the future he’d crafted for Merlin to live without him. A future where Merlin became King and a Pendragon never darkened another doorstep, their name never falling from another tongue again for as long as Albion would go on living.

“I need to go,” croaked Arthur, extricating himself with less care than he first intended. His heart thumped. He scooped Cabal into his arms and cradled him close – a warm and affectionate shield against the aches and pains flaring anew within the barrel of his chest. He didn’t look at Sir Tor. “Please don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

It was hard enough to leave already, his shoulders hunched against the burning weight that followed him out the door, his pup a whining weight nuzzling his face. He took all the shortcuts he knew to make it back to the royal chamber in good time. It wasn’t a surprise to return and find Merlin asleep, appearing small and vulnerable, his face pointed at the door, as though he’d been watching and waiting for Arthur to return. The thought alone was enough to send a pulse of pain shooting through him. Arthur deposited Cabal into the antechamber, took a moment to wash the slobber from his face and hands and brush the canine hairs from his clothing, and returned to the bedchamber.

He sat on the edge of the bed.

Arthur, hand shaking, couldn’t stop himself from reaching out and smoothing back a lock of raven hair. Merlin pressed his face closer in his sleep, troubled frown easing, and Arthur swallowed the pained noise that rose in his throat. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that his life should come to an end now, that either of their lives should have to come to an end now, when it took him so long to give in and let Merlin hold him close. Took him so long to give in and almost kiss Merlin for the first time in the Darkling Wood. Arthur looked down at the plump curve of his bottom lip and wondered what it would be like to lean down over his sleeping master, to press a tentative kiss against the soft pillow of that lip, but the fear of waking Merlin kept him motionless at his side. If he woke to a kiss from Arthur, knowing he’d soon be leaving, Merlin would just be tense and miserable during their last moments together.

That wasn’t what Arthur wanted.

If anything, he wanted Merlin to be happy, but calm and peaceful would do until morning, until he had no choice but to leave him to face that looming future without Arthur keeping an eye on him.

Arthur continued to run his fingertips over the arch of an eyebrow, the sharp line of a cheekbone and the gentle curve of a large ear, the silkiness of his raven hair. A small smile quivered into being, the edges growing wet and salty as Arthur continued to familiarise himself with the softness of his skin and the contented sighs that escaped Merlin in his sleep. He didn’t whisper the words that sat warm and heavy upon his tongue. Arthur couldn’t whisper them to a man sleeping, knowing Merlin deserved to hear them in the light of day, when he could have drawn Arthur close and whispered them against his hair in return.

Merlin slept through all the moments remaining, and Arthur rose from the bedside when the first pale hue invaded the bedchamber, an indicator that his time was drawing to a swift end. He disappeared into the antechamber without a word and sank back against the door, sliding down the length until he reached the floor, the cold stone hard and unforgiving beneath him. His head tipping back against the door, Arthur watched the morning approach as Cabal investigated under the bed with a curious nose. His frame lost tension as exhaustion moved through him like wet slide of warm wine. His vision faded and blurred at the edges and Arthur felt something he’d never expected to feel when faced with his own demise: amusement.

A wave of dark humour rippled through Arthur at the thought of escaping that damned King, escaping the slap of steel against his skin and the storm of motion that often drove him down against hard wooden tables and up against cold stone. At the thought of escaping the cruel fingers that often wrapped tight around his windpipe and squeezed until spots danced across his vision and the sudden release would leave him coughing, his panicked lungs overeager, and his knees as weak as water, forcing him to the stone floor while King Bayard laughed at the sight of Arthur weakened at his feet. His shoulders quaked as a chuckle escaped Arthur. If anything, escaping King Bayard was the main benefit of passing away, as would be the chance to meet his mother when the gates of Avalon opened for him in welcome.

He’d read about Avalon in his studies.

He’d read about the endless fields of golden barley, the scattered orchards and the enormous lake glistening in eternal sunshine where King Oberon and Queen Titania collected the dead at the behest of the High Queen until their souls could move on. He’d read about the varied hues painting the sky, refracted from the Crystal Castle under the rule of Arianrhod – Goddess of Rebirth and High Queen of the Fae. He’d read about the starlight that twinkled across the cascade of her hair and the shooting stars that darted across her ceremonial robes. He’d read about the pointed ears and the pale silver glow, her ancient eyes shining like the moon above and stark against the midnight shadow of her skin. Arthur knew the High Queen weighed the souls of the dead in her crystalline throne room and judged which lives deserved a better rebirth and which deserved a damning one.

Souls could wait centuries before being judged and reborn at last.

Just the thought terrified Arthur.

What if there wasn’t enough goodness within him to even earn a rebirth at all?

What if he never walked the earth again?

It wouldn’t have surprised him. Arthur knew his line was cursed. Pendragons kept coming, coming to maim and slaughter the people or to be maimed and slaughtered and defiled at the cruel hands of others for the sins of one that shared their name. Being born a Pendragon meant continuing the cycle of loss and vengeance.

“But no more,” murmured Arthur, “because I’m the last one.” An exhausted chuckle brimming with hysteria rippled through him at the thought. His eyes fluttered closed and Arthur swallowed thickly, thinking about his mother, gone before her time and waiting for him now, waiting, waiting, waiting ever since she’d been taken from him and Camelot at large. His voice cracked. “I’m the last Pendragon now and it can end here; the circle can break with me.”


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, folks!
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think!

Arthur woke to a hard pounding. The sound knocked around his skull and jolted him upright as Cabal went berserk in his lap, barking, darting down to scratch at the door as Elyan shouted his name through the wood...and...and what sounded like tears. He knew then that something was wrong. Something had gone wrong. He must have slept for less than a moment and something went wrong in that short span of time. Arthur scrambled to his feet in an instant and wrenched open the door, unprepared for the sight of his brother sobbing like a child and reaching for him with a desperation that alarmed him. Arthur cast a stricken glance over his shoulder, at his master, who sat safe and sound in bed. Merlin stared in bewilderment at the pair, surprised and a fraction indignant and more than a little concerned at the display.

“Arthur, you need to come with me. You need to come with me now,” urged his brother, his hand like a vice around his arm as he pulled Arthur to the far door, each step laced with panic and despair. A fresh wave of tears bubbled up. “Something happened to Gwen!”

“No,” Arthur croaked out in fear as he broke into a sprint at once, ignoring the concerned shout of his name, his sudden burst of speed almost toppling his brother. Elyan scrambled to catch up with him. “No, no, no!”

His fearful plea repeated over and over until Arthur burst into Gaius’ chambers at last and found himself slammed up against the door a moment later.

“What did you do,” Councillor Ares growled at Arthur, arm pressed tight across his throat and eyes blazing within an inch of his face. He eased up when he noticed the tight coil of panic looming, threatening to overwhelm Arthur, his feral expression softening a fraction. His voice, however, remained firm as ever. “Where did the Great Dragon take you last night?”

“He took me to the Crystal Cave,” Arthur wheezed out when he could manage to do so, his throat aching, unwilling to look at Tom or Gaius or his brother, both of whom were watching him now, “and I went to strike a deal with Nimueh.” He looked at Councillor Ares instead. He watched the colour drain from his angelic countenance. The noise Tom made in response sent a wave of shame washing over Arthur, and he looked down at his feet. Tears blurred his vision. Swollen and sore still from weeping, his eyes burned anew with the shame of what he’d done. His throat constricted as he then looked at the two puncture wounds now in stasis. “I never meant for this to happen.”

“Your father never meant to sacrifice your mother,” sneered the sorcerer, “but we all know how that situation turned out for the realm. Arthur, what on earth were you thinking? What possessed you to trust that damned witch after what she did? She helped ruin countless lives!”

“Because I thought there would be a difference,” Arthur roared loud enough to startle the sorcerer, to make him take an automatic step back as the room fell into sudden silence around him. Arthur struggled with the emotions coursing through his veins like so much fire at the mention of his mother, at the mention of that long ago future – the life he should have lived – torn asunder at the hands of Nimueh and then once more at the hands of the tyrant his father had become. His hands clenched into fists as the anger morphed into the purest form of rage. “I wasn’t creating a life from nothing, but saving one!”

And then Arthur was moving, prowling forward until Councillor Ares bumped into the worktable. Delicate hands scrabbled for purchase. Rage radiated from Arthur in thick waves as he demanded to know what he’d done with Carnwennan. Councillor Ares was quick to hand her over, the blade terrible and gleaming, cleaned of black blood and brain matter, and thirsting for so much more as Arthur wrapped his hand around her hilt. She pulsed in his grasp.

“Take me to the Crystal Cave,” commanded Arthur, emulating the changes that often came over his master, the changes he’d made to his stance the night before when commanding Councillor Ares for the first time. “Given your reaction a moment ago, I’m sure you know where it is. You must have known where Nimueh was hiding all this time – in the one place no practitioner would dare search.”

“Arthur –”

“You will take me to the cave now. Are we clear?” The words escaped through a clenched jaw, the bottom half of his face aching from the unbearable tension. His hand tightened around Carnwennan until his tendons ached. Arthur directed a hard stare at Councillor Ares and waited for him to react to the authoritative note in his voice, to the command in his stance. Councillor Ares stared back for a moment that seemed to stretch forever before bowing, murmuring his obedience – a fact that made Arthur feel strange even as the storm of rage continued within him. Doing his best to ignore the terrified stare of Tom and his brother, Arthur barked for Councillor Ares to get on with it. A moment later the pair materialised outside the opening, the one tight with determination and the other fretting, casting concerned glances at Arthur. “Stay here and let me handle this.”

“Arthur, you can’t do this!”

“Just watch me.”

“This is suicide!”

“It might be. But I won’t let Gwen die for the mistake I made.”

Arthur stared at the cave entrance, remembered the welcoming sensation that enveloped his body, and remembered the moment he made the bargain with Nimueh. He remembered the flicker of madness dancing in her haunted gaze. His grip flexed to release the strain in his tendons. He took a step forward and then another, his anger starting to clear, starting to grow sharp, honing to a fine edge as an almost strange sense of calm washed over his senses. Adrenaline surged through his veins even so, leading him in to the entrance, where that familiar sensation started all over again...but dulled and diluted...as though even the ancient crystals and the magic dwelling within could sense the nature of his visit.

Nimueh wasn’t even lurking this time. She knelt with her back to the cave entrance. Her spine curved as she leaned over the crystal in front of her, hands gripping, aura almost desperate. Arthur took a silent step in her direction...but paused when her shoulders quaked. A broken noise escaped the witch. It almost sounded like a name. He took another step forward as Nimueh started stroking the crystal in front of her, touch warm and tender and loving, almost extending into reverence. Arthur looked past her at the crystal and heard the faint echo of laughter, caught the flicker of fair hair aglow with sunshine. A sharp inhale of surprise made Nimueh rise to her feet and whirl around in an instant. Gone was the grieving woman of a moment ago; the madwoman faced him now, her frame too still to be natural.

“You ignored the offer I made.”

“I’ve done no such thing.” Her haunted gaze grew sharper than steel. An arc of lightning sparked across her pale palm. A snarl twisted her mouth as aggression rippled through her frame. “I have no more choice over a sacrifice now than I did when you were a babe. I won’t stand for another false accusation from a Pendragon.”

Arthur threw himself to the side an instant before lightning arced through the space he’d occupied. He crashed to the cave floor and made to scramble up, only to feel a vice of magic snare his ankle and flip him over, a wave of dizziness washing over him when his head thumped against the rough stone beneath him. He struck out as her face loomed overhead and felt a fusion of shame and satisfaction as the sudden blow sent the witch sprawling, her bottom lip tearing, blood streaming down her chin. Arthur surged up and after her, another blow following, the room spinning and his stomach churning. Bile burned in his throat. He never landed a third blow, a powerful blast of magic sending him flying, slamming into the rough stone amid a dozen glowing crystals.

Carnwennan fell from his grasp.

A vice of magic wrapped around his throat and squeezed until familiar fear gripped him.

Nimueh prowled across the cave. Her triumphant smile turned wolfish. The split marring her mouth had healed between one instant and the next. Her eyes glowed with power, the gold vibrant and almost blinding, and Arthur raised his chin in defiance. He wouldn’t cower before her like a coward. He refused to. Only when her gaze fell upon the immortal blade at his feet did Nimueh pause. Her madness wavered for the briefest instant when she looked up, her mouth quivering, the magic in her gaze flickering in and out of existence – though the magic pinning Arthur to the stone never wavered for even a moment. The magic never stopped squeezing, threatening, Arthur breaking out in a cold sweat as that familiar fear continued to grip him.

“I loved your mother.” Her voice broke the silence as little more than a whisper, as though the fabric of the world might shatter should Nimueh speak louder, as though Uther Pendragon might return from the veil to cleave head from shoulders at the merest mention of his beloved wife. “I loved her so much. I never wanted...” Nimueh shook her head and swallowed thickly, continuing, “But you’ve given me no choice. A Pendragon never knows when to stop pursuing, when to stop hunting and rampaging, when to give up or give in even when the earth begs for them to stop.” Her hands curled into fists. Her expression hardened into one without a scrap of compassion. “I’ll just have to stop you instead.”

The band of magic around his throat started tightening, relentless and without a hint of mercy, and Arthur scrabbled at the stone behind him. Panic crashed through his veins in a violent wave. Nimueh increased the force of her power until his face began purpling, his chest began protesting, and spots of black started dancing across his vision. Her smile almost gloating, Nimueh took a step forward and then another, and determination sparked up inside Arthur even as his head pounded with terror. His booted foot slammed into her chest. Something cracked under the force. Arthur dropped to the cave floor like a sack of turnips as Nimueh went sprawling all over again. His face stung where he’d scraped it against the rough stone beneath him.

Arthur coughed around each burst of glorious air until his throat burned. His bruised chest ached something fierce from the impact with the cave floor. He couldn’t move for a moment that stretched forever, his heart hammering, the room still spinning, his senses vaulting into overdrive as he listened to the sound of Nimueh groaning, cursing, spitting blood out of her mouth as though she’d bitten her tongue hard enough to bleed. Arthur shifted his head and came face to face with a pair of silver moons staring hard at him from the crystal nearby, taking his measure without uttering a single word. His heart stopped beating at the sight and then started pounding, slamming against his ribcage. Blood roared in his ears. He wasn’t certain how, but he managed at last to get his wrists beneath him and push himself up, up, up from the cave floor, his knees quaking and his entire front a wall comprised of pain. His muscles protested each move as he scanned for his dagger, the blade having skittered away, knocked aside with the sweep of robes in the scuffle. Arthur forced himself onward and dived for the blade. His fingertips scraped the hilt a moment before it flew into the sorceress’ grasp, summoned there with a burst of controlled magic.

Tightening her grip, Nimueh rose to her feet and smirked just before she vanished from view, and Arthur scanned the Crystal Cave for a sign of her. But there was none to be found. Not even the impression of her shoes in the dust remained. Her disappearance was absolute. Arthur swallowed another wave of fear and retreated until the stone pressed hard against his back. If the sorceress was going to take this victory, then Arthur would die facing her, not fleeing her like a coward. He refused to have a blade buried in his back. His eyes squeezed shut as he waited for his demise to come...but Arthur snapped them back open when Nimueh exclaimed in surprised pain and went toppling to the floor, Carnwennan knocked from her grasp and sent skittering across the cave floor.

A tall and proud figure clad in a black surcoat and plate armour turned to face Arthur, wrenching the helm from his head and revealing a man with hair fair enough to be mistaken for snow white and a jaw almost too lopsided to be natural. His face seemed to glow as though a white crystal dwelled beneath his skin. Grey eyes shone with warm and tender recognition. The man bore an aquiline nose that was far too familiar. It made Arthur reach up and touch his own before a gauntleted hand wrapped around his upper arm and hauled him away, hauled him across the Crystal Cave and almost threw him at the baselard waiting for him. Arthur scrabbled for the immortal blade even as the Black Knight turned to face Nimueh once more.

Something akin to sorrow and regret washed across his youthful face as the Black Knight looked down at her, his shoulders tensing, his chin rising in a familiar show of defiance.

“I never thought I’d see your stupid face again.” Still sprawled across the rough cave floor, Nimueh stared up at the Black Knight in pained confusion. Her hand pressed hard against her sternum – as though to prevent her heart from escaping. Desperate eyes searched the Crystal Cave for something – perhaps _someone_ – but found nothing, and returned to stare up at the Black Knight. Irritation chased the desperation away, leaving Nimueh sharp and bitter. “I don’t know how you even managed to show up, Tristan. I never summoned you.”

“It doesn’t matter how I came here.” Tristan wrapped his hand around the hilt of his sword and drew the blade in one fluid motion. The blade came free without even a hiss of steel. A shiver of disquiet rippled through Arthur, who heaved himself to his feet and tightened his grip around Carnwennan as Nimueh rose to her feet in the same moment. Her attention flicked from one man to the other and back again. Tristan took a step to the side and Arthur lost sight of her, forcing him to rise on his tiptoes to just about peak over that broad shoulder; it almost made him curse the man for being so tall compared to him. “I won’t let you hurt him.”

“You don’t have the power to stop me.” Nimueh donned her wolfish smile and tilted her head. Her gaze flickered with gold. “I can feel your strength waning from here. You’ll fade soon enough and then Arthur will be mine.”

“Arthur will prove the stronger,” Tristan snarled in return. It made him sound so much older, so much more aggressive and savage. It made him sound as though he wanted nothing more than to close the distance and tear Nimueh asunder with his bare hands. His hand tightened around the hilt of his blade instead. “He just needed a helping hand – one the High Queen granted with pleasure. Your time here is measured.”

Nimueh convulsed around the force of her cackling, her madness overtaking reason in one dark sweep, her hand slashing through the air in a violent arc.

Arthur ducked to avoid the cascade of broken stone that came hurtling across the cave as Tristan did the same – the latter flashed a reassuring smile at him before coming up roaring, striking the witch hard enough to send her reeling, surprise flicking across her pale features. Tristan never paused long enough to let Nimueh recover from the shock. A second blow followed an instant later, and a sickening crunch filled the air; blood streamed down from her nose in a thick torrent. Her face twisted in anger. Nimueh clawed the air, her magic flaring, and the nonverbal spell slashed Tristan’s face open.

White light exploded into view in an almost blinding display, forcing Arthur to turn his face away, his eyes watering, his hand rising to grip the crystal hanging from around his neck on an impulse. He squeezed his eyes shut as the sound of a scuffle continued around him. The golden magic swirling within the crystal jumped at his sudden touch like an overeager pup, thrumming, winding its way up his arm and past his shoulder, where it split into two: one stream heading up to the back of his head and the other diving down to his bruised torso. It sank beneath his skin. Arthur stumbled back against the cave wall and almost groaned as his skin started warming, his injured head and bruised torso healing, his tense muscles unknotting; his hand scrabbled at the stone for purchase as his knees buckled.

Arthur wasn’t certain how Merlin ever managed to function in polite society, if this is what it felt like to have magic coursing through him all the time. His respect for Merlin intensified tenfold in that moment. Arthur relinquished the crystal once the magic started fading, once it started retreating into the crystal sanctuary, swirling in contentment when he glanced down at the damned thing. His attention snapped back up to the fight then to see Nimueh and Tristan panting, the one sweating with exertion and the other flickering in and out of existence, his face now showing little sign of having been slashed open with magic.

“Arthur,” said Tristan urgently, all the while keeping his attention fastened upon the sorceress as the pair circled each other, “you have kin still living, but not all of them can be trusted! Your uncle is a traitor to kin and Camelot. He sold state secrets to Bayard and helped orchestrate the assault on the city, and the Queen of Cornwall has been under his influence ever since he paid a sorcerer to enchant her. Agravaine is the reason Merewald never waged war to retrieve you from the King’s clutches! And your sister is –”

“Sister?” Arthur exclaimed in disbelief as Nimueh threw a bolt of lightning, the arc vivid red against the serene blue of the cave around them. “I don’t have a sister!”

“You do! Her name is Morg –”

A second arc of lightning caught Tristan after he’d dodged the first and came up swinging, his expression a mask of righteous anger, and then surprise as the lightning struck his middle with explosive force. Tristan slammed into the stone wall and slumped upon the cave floor, his armoured frame flickering even harder, his mouth twisting in a grimace comprised of pain and anger and regret.

The Black Knight vanished then and Arthur was left alone with Nimueh once more.

The sorceress donned her wolfish smile all over again and prowled across the distance separating her from Arthur, the madness within her a noticeable gleam in that deep and chilling stare. Carnwennan seemed an impossible weight in his hand as Arthur started circling; his attention fastened upon the sorceress as he ensured she couldn’t back him into a corner, and forced himself to ignore the nerves dancing down the length of his spine. He watched her. He hoped to find a weakness...some blind spot left unprotected that he could exploit in the near future. Just as Merlin would do when faced with burlier and more skilled men in the arena during the numerous tournaments held in Camelot and Mercia each season. The thought of Merlin reignited the cold wave of anger that overcame him earlier, his shoulders loosening, his spine straightening, his grip tightening around Carnwennan.

The blade pulsed in his grip, and Arthur trusted her, trusted the impulse that sent him twirling to one side. He missed the third arc of lightning with an inch to spare; the knowledge sent a ripple of awareness through his entire frame as the crystal it struck splintered into a million pieces. Arthur trusted the impulse that followed less than an instant later, his unarmed hand curling into a fist and coming in hard to collide with the face that materialised within a foot of him. Nimueh reeled back as her nose broke for the second time with another sickening crunch. Arthur never even paused before bringing his second hand forward in a sharp slash that resulted in hot sparks as Nimueh raised a hand comprised of steel to deflect the blow, the pair straining against an equal opposing force, their mouths twisted in mirrored snarls of anger and determination.

Golden eyes glowed brighter.

Nimueh shoved with enough force to send him stumbling, and Arthur ducked to avoid the swipe of a steel claw, his breath catching in his throat as the fine edge kissed his hair. Arthur threw all of his might into a tackle that toppled them and brought them to the cave floor, the pair sprawling, groaning from the jarring force of the impact. Carnwennan went skittering across the cave floor during the fall. An agonised scream escaped Arthur as steel tore through leather and tunic, through flesh and sinew, four burning lines of white-hot pain splitting open across his back an instant before Nimueh crushed him against the cave floor. A steel hand stained with his blood wrapped around his throat and squeezed until he went limp, but for the hand clawing for the crystal around his neck. Nimueh noticed nothing through the haze of her madness and triumphant aggression until it was far too late, Carnwennan soaring into his grasp and plunging up, up, up into her middle like a warm knife through butter.

Blood spilled hot and wet as Arthur pressed the blade deeper, his mouth twisted in a grimace of pain and fear, his eyes widening as Nimueh looked down in surprise. Her hand shook as it pressed against her middle. Arthur swallowed as Nimueh dragged her head up slow, her madness fading, something akin to relief spreading across her face as she started falling, her weight sliding the blade free.

She hit the stone with little sound.

Arthur stared at her body, his stomach churning, his hand shaking like a leaf as he realised what he’d done. Bile burned at the back of his throat and he forced himself to swallow. He forced himself to feet. Fire burned across his back as Arthur crouched and heaved her lifeless corpse into his arms. He swallowed a shout of agony, fixed his grip with a small bounce of her body, his hand still wrapped tight around Carnwennan. His steps echoed as Arthur crossed the cave, glancing over his shoulder, some small hope blooming within him...but no more dead faces made an appearance for Arthur. No flaxen hair glowed like sunshine and no blue eyes smiled at him. Arthur turned his face away, and continued walking, squeezing through the cave entrance with extra care. He made sure nothing desecrated her corpse further; even an enemy deserved that much respect and consideration.

Councillor Ares almost grew faint at the sight of Arthur and his burden. Neither of them spoke as Councillor Ares mustered whatever passed for strength inside him and laid a hand upon his shoulder, grip strong, magic flaring around the two of them and the corpse in their company. The magic teleported the three of them to the council chamber, where the pale King sat presiding over an emergency council meeting, and then fell silent at the sight of Arthur and the corpse he bore in his arms. Arthur carried Nimueh to the council table. He set her down without a word and looked at the King, waiting for the explosion of anger, the punishment for acting without leave and disrupting the council meeting.

The King, however, just stared down the table at her corpse – the witch might even have been the subject of the council meeting, given the furious whispering that spread through the council – and said nothing. He raised his head after a long moment. King Bayard stared at Arthur, his gaze sharp and questioning, before dismissing him without uttering a single word.

Arthur turned on his heel and strode away, his hand like a vice around the blade from his mother, the acrid taste of vomit lingering in his throat. He ignored the awed glance from Councillor Ares. He ignored the continued whispering from the council and the concerned stare from Lord Robert. None of it mattered. He cared about nothing, but his adoptive sister, who he surmised was fine now, given the sudden and unsolicited interference from the High Queen of the Fae.

But he had to make sure.

He couldn’t live based on assumptions.

Making an assumption was what got him into this damned mess in the first place.

Blood gathered at the base of his spine as Arthur strode through the castle. It soaked into his tunic, into the leather of his riding jacket. It soaked his trousers. The muscles in his back screamed with each powerful step he took until Arthur burst through the door separating him from his loved ones. An aura of relief permeated the chamber when he entered and he saw Gwen speaking, mumbling to her brother, clinging to his hand as Tom bound her chest with tender, loving care. The sight made him pause. Gwen would have been safe and secure had he never darkened their doorstep, and now his adoptive sister was destined to have scars mirroring those of the Prince of Camelot and Mercia.

Scars from a wound she never should have suffered.

A wound she bore because of him.

A pained noise rose in his throat when Gwen looked at him and smiled in relief. She raised a weakened arm and Arthur closed the distance, burying his face in raven hair dampened with sweat and stroking a bloodstained hand over her arm.

“Arthur,” Gaius exclaimed from behind him before a hand clamped down on his shoulder, wrenching him away, wizened arm strengthened with magic. “What do you think you’re doing, you foolish boy? Keep that dirt and dust away from those stitches! Now, come here and let me look at you. Elyan – fetch more hot water from the kitchens. Tom – keep wrapping that chest. Arthur, sit down before you fall down and hold still.”

Gaius pushed him down upon a stool and Arthur stared across the chamber at his sister, his attention not returning to the physician until he pulled Carnwennan from his grasp and used it to rip through the leather of his riding jacket. He stared down at the torn remains of the gift from Merlin and felt nothing, nothing but blood soaking his skin. He felt nothing but dead weight straddling his lap. His tunic followed the riding jacket. A lopsided smile twisted his mouth at the sight of crimson defiling the pure white fabric. He wasn’t sure how much time passed. All he knew was the slick of blood down his back as Gaius squeezed hot water over his protesting muscles; the gentle dabbing of a wet cloth against screaming fire; the repeated prick of something sharp and then the following drag; the white roll passing in front of him over and over, and over and over, until hands secured it tight behind him.

Arthur was aware of nothing else until Elyan draped him in a travelling cloak and eased him up from the stool after cleaning his hands of blood. Elyan wrapped an arm around his waist and steadied him the moment he started to sway, and Arthur opened his mouth to say something, but lost the thread of conversation before it could begin. His once sharp mind was trapped in endless fog. It remained so until a familiar door opened and a familiar face pale with concern stared at him from the royal bed.

“Sire,” Arthur croaked at the sight of his master, whose concern intensified when Merlin spotted the bandages wrapped around his torso. He wasn’t aware that he was shaking until familiar arms welcomed him home. His brother vacated the royal chamber without a word. Arthur couldn’t stop shaking. Not when a gentle hand carded through his hair. Nor even when a mouth that wasn’t familiar enough almost pressed against his temple and then his forehead and the stinging corner of an eye. Merlin cradled him close and refused to let go, refused to part with him for even a moment as the shaking morphed into weeping, his mouth twisting around heaving sobs that ached right down to his bones and threatened to pull at his stitches.

Arthur said nothing of what happened in the Crystal Cave.

Merlin never asked him to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note:  
> 1) Merewald is an original character.
> 
> 2) I figured...if Merlin could see a dead relative in the Crystal Cave, why not Arthur? I was always annoyed that we never got to see what Tristan de Bois looked like in the show...or what he would have been like as an uncle. I'd like to think he'd be nothing like his brother. I'd like to think he would have loved and supported Arthur, no matter what.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone still reading/leaving comments/leaving kudos. I really appreciate it!
> 
> Warning: This chapter contains mentions of suicide/suicidal thoughts/death wishes. 
> 
> As always, feel free to let me know what you think!

Arthur slept for what must have been at least an entire day, and woke to find himself curled up in his own bed in the antechamber, aware on some level that Merlin must have transported him there with magic. His hand was wrapped around the crystal dangling from his neck. A cocoon of magic thrummed around Arthur, warm and tender, making him feel so loved. His head throbbed from too much sleep even so. His stomach panged with sharp hunger. His mouth felt parched and stuffed with wool. Not interested much in waking further, Arthur shuffled closer to that thrumming magic and groaned low, letting himself luxuriate in the sensation for longer than he should have. Arthur luxuriated until his stomach panged even harder, his hunger making his stomach churn uncomfortably, and Arthur heaved himself out of bed with due care; his back remained stiff and sore where Nimueh ripped him open in the Crystal Cave.

Just thinking of the witch made his stomach churn harder. His desire to eat diminishing, Arthur avoided the colour red as he started dressing, his mouth twisting in a grimace as each movement pulled at his stitches. Warm magic lingered near him like a lover...or at least what he supposed a lover might be like. He wasn’t experienced in such matters. As close as he had grown to his master, Merlin wasn’t his lover, no matter what either of them wished. The magic slithered down to wrap around his waist and hovered near his shoulder, warm and comforting, so familiar it almost made Arthur reach up and card his hand through raven hair that wasn’t even there.

Arthur found Merlin working when he entered the royal chamber, his master sitting up, looking over half a dozen different sheaves of parchment and frowning, his face a mask of concentration. His chest ached when Merlin failed to look up. The ache grew sharper when Merlin never even acknowledged him with a small smile or the briefest glance. A familiar lump of fur slept beside his master, whining, other distressed noises escaping him as his little paws kicked over and over, snared in a dream or perhaps reacting to the stilted atmosphere between Merlin and Arthur. Uncertain what could have earned such an unexpected reaction from his master, Arthur hovered at the edge of the large bed and waited for Merlin to look up, to welcome him closer or order him away. Even being shouted at would have been better than the cold shoulder directed at him now.

“Ares came to me yesterday,” Merlin said eventually, quietly, his narrow frame wound tight like a longbow, his mouth tightening in anger, “and he explained what you tried to do to save me. What you ended up having to do in the Crystal Cave. Arthur, have you a death wish?”

“No,” murmured Arthur, feeling unable to meet his gaze when Merlin at last looked up, vibrant gold blazing where there should have been clear blue.

Magic snared his chin and encouraged him to look at his master, the touch warm and tender, but still firm and authoritative. Merlin was no longer tight with anger, but soft with concern as Arthur squeezed his eyes shut to avoid the reminder, his own frame tightening with panic as memories of Nimueh surged to the surface.

“No,” Arthur said again as he wrenched himself away, his chest heaving, and the wounds on his back screaming. Shame burned across his face as the remembered fear raced through him. His hand clutched at the base of his throat. He could still feel the steel claw wrapped around him and squeezing, squeezing harder than even the King, squeezing with even more intent. But Arthur could also still feel the dark laughter bubbling up when he thought he’d escape King Bayard. “No,” whispered Arthur, wrapping his arms around himself and squeezing, avoiding the concerned stare from his master. “I don’t know. I don’t want to be so far from you...but I don’t want to be near the King. I...the King...he...”

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut as his throat convulsed around the confession and started choking him. His fingers scrabbled at his skin. He swallowed the words back down with force enough to hurt and shook his head. He couldn’t do it. He didn’t know how, not without choking up, without making a complete fool of himself. Maybe it wasn’t the right time. Arthur wasn’t certain. He was certain of nothing, but that he never wanted to leave Merlin. The thought must have been written upon his face when Arthur looked at his master, who softened even further, confessing that he never meant to distress him.

“But I can’t stop thinking about what almost happened. I was devastated when I thought you were just leaving, but knowing you went to Nimueh...” Merlin shook his head and beckoned him closer, warm magic urging him to sit on the bed. Arthur did so, his heart thumping, swallowing when Merlin gathered his hands and raised them to his mouth. Lips pressed warm and soft against his skin. A whimper of strangled need and desire escaped Arthur, his shoulders tensing, which in turn earned a bark of pain as the stitches pulled tight hard against his wounds. “Sorry,” exclaimed his master, “I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you!”

Merlin dropped his hands like a pie too hot to hold and Arthur felt bereft immediately, bereft without those hands cradling his closer, without those lips grazing against his skin. He wanted them back. He wanted them back and more. Arthur looked away, heartsick and bitter, and wondered whether he and Merlin would ever have a normal relationship. He wondered whether the balance would ever tip to one side of the sword or the other. He’d wager it wouldn’t happen until nothing remained of the King but a rotting corpse. Not that he would wish that upon Merlin. He knew Merlin loved his uncle despite everything, despite the boundaries that King Bayard set up, despite the resentment brewing beneath his breast.

Arthur might have lost himself to further contemplation had his stomach not grumbled loud enough to wake the dead. He pressed a hand over his belly, flushing scarlet when Merlin started laughing; the sudden rush of amusement eradicated the concern at last. Merlin reached out then and cradled his jaw, his renewed silence hinting at just how much Merlin wanted to kiss him. Arthur looked down at his lap, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth and nibbling, doing his best to ignore the soft tingle in his skin and the desire racing through his veins.

“Go on. Get some food in that stomach of yours before you fall down on me. Bring some back for me and the pup, too.” Merlin let his hand fall away, let his hand curl into a fist in his lap, and Arthur wanted to chase after it and pull it back up to his face. He wanted to press a dozen kisses against the palm. Arthur remained motionless instead. He watched Merlin sort through the various sheaves of parchment at his side. “You can also deliver these letters while you’re at it. The first is for the King, these four are for the Captain of the Guard and the last is for Pellinore and that band of his – if you can find them. I hope you can. I know Kilgharrah must have found and released them from whatever enchantment entrapped them the other night. He would have told me otherwise.”

Arthur inclined his head in a short bow, rose from the bed without hesitation and accepted the documentation offered. He vacated the royal chamber without pause and ventured into the world outside – where people greeted him with smiles too bright to be comfortable and cheerful waves. Deorwynn gave him a bear hug, the sudden embrace catching him off-guard at the top of a staircase; the pair of them almost toppled and would have had Arthur not made a grab for the railing, the sudden cessation of momentum almost ripping his stitches open. He managed to refrain from cursing up a storm like some crazed magician. Just about. Arthur did reprimand her, however, his tone sharpening until Deorwynn startled and stammered and apologised in a rush.

Feeling like a monster, Arthur rubbed the bridge of his nose with one hand and patted her shoulder with the other, muttering, “I’m sorry. I never meant to snap. Just be more careful in the future. Please.”

“Of course, Sire!” Deorwynn beamed at the apology, tipped her head in the faintest bow, and then paled as soon as she realised what she’d said. What she’d done. Arthur drained of colour where he stood. His head rang. He scanned the corridor behind them and then the staircase before hauling Deorwynn into the nearest alcove. “I’m sorry,” she croaked in a frantic whisper, panicked gaze looking for an escape. “I don’t know what came over me! I’m sorry!”

Arthur slammed a hand over her mouth to stop the frantic babbling, and felt twice the monster when Deorwynn started weeping, but he whispered urgently, “I’m not angry with you. Okay? I’m not. But you need to calm down. You need to calm down before someone happens to come down here. You can’t let them think you’ve done something wrong. Do you understand?”

Quick and sharp, Deorwynn nodded her head and Arthur released her. Guilt gnawed his innards like a dog when she sniffled and ran her sleeve across her face. He watched her wipe the evidence of her tears away, but for the redness around her eyes and the tears welling anew, her smile watery when Arthur drew her into another hug but this one far softer, attempting to soften the blow of what had happened between them. He’d never meant to alarm her. He never wanted to alarm someone like that ever again.

“If anyone comes along, I’ll tell them one of the kittens from the newest litter died this morning. None of the men around here can handle a young woman weeping over something so trivial.” Deorwynn sounded far too bitter when Arthur withdrew; he looked her over for a moment that stretched too long, making sure she’d recovered from her spell of emotion. “Not counting His Highness. His soul is gentler than the rest. Camelot doesn’t deserve him in the least.”

“You’re wrong,” said Arthur, turning away, glancing over his shoulder and offering a last smile. “Camelot deserves that much and more.”

A cheerful silence descended over Camelot and Mercia as the week progressed. Not even the usual insurgent Saxons crossed the border for a skirmish. It seemed as though the death of a notorious sorceress made various people reluctant to spark the ire of the united realms. Arthur found it disconcerting, but couldn’t help smiling when he noticed the mages relaxing, the various guards laughing, and the countless servants gossiping after King Bayard invited the Priestesses of the Old Religion to feast at the castle in a month or so – as a mark of respect for their former sister, in spite of the numerous grievances she’d caused over the years.

Arthur discussed the matter with Merlin more than once after he managed to open up about what happened in the Crystal Cave. After he managed to open up about what he’d learned...about Merlin and their supposed future together, a conversation that drained Merlin of colour, his magic flaring to envelop the chamber, protecting them from eavesdroppers in an instant. He’d been quick to calm Merlin down that first time. He’d been quicker to tell him that he understood the need for keeping it secret. It was an emotional conversation to say the least – one that ended with Merlin cradling his face in both hands and pressing their foreheads together, the pair of them aching, almost burning with the need to share a kiss that wasn’t yet possible.

He’d opened up about the confrontation with Nimueh then. He’d opened up about the spirit of Tristan de Bois and the things he’d told Arthur: what he’d said about the Queen of Cornwall and his treacherous uncle; what he’d said about his having a sister – one that must have been the bastard child of his father, if no one knew of her continued existence.

“We’ll think of something,” Merlin had murmured as he and Arthur sprawled together, the one using the other as a pillow, neither of them willing to move as the roaring fire in the hearth warmed them. “I’m sure Robyn would be willing to head down there – to make sure what Tristan said is true.”

“I’m not so sure...”

“You think he lied?”

“No. Don’t be an idiot.” He’d made a face against his master’s belly, the skin soft and warm against his cheek and too wonderful to express. The gentle hand carding through his hair had softened his disgruntlement a fraction – the smallest fraction in existence. “I’m not sure Robyn would be willing. You know she hates me.”

“Now you’re the one being stupid. She doesn’t hate you. She respects you for what you managed to do against the Questing Beast – she just doesn’t like you much.”

“Whatever.”

“Hey, look at me.” Merlin had tugged upon his hair until Arthur raised his head and looked up at him. He’d smiled and made a blatant attempt to swallow the teasing remark about his pouting. Not that Arthur had pouted in the first place. “Not liking you now doesn’t mean she won’t like you in the future. Just give her some time.”

“Fine,” Arthur had mumbled before shuffling closer, throwing a possessive arm across his master, heedless of the ache in his muscles the action caused. He’d hummed in pleasure when callused fingertips dragged across his scalp with just the right amount of pressure. Neither of them had spoken much after that.

Now, almost two weeks later, Arthur was still healing, the process slow and unbearable. But it wasn’t as awful as when he’d broken his arm. He could do a lot more now than he could then. Honestly, he was healing much faster than either Merlin or Gwen. His wounds weren’t laced with magic that fought the healing process as theirs were. His dreams weren’t as simple to bear, however; more than once he’d awoken thrashing, screaming, convinced that his sweat was blood until Merlin heaved himself through the doorway, armed with a floating sphere of warm light that bathed him in a comforting glow, the pair of them staring at each other as hoarse screams became harsh panting, the one humiliated and the other concerned.

Arthur often spent the remainder of those nights with a blanket draped over his shoulders, hand clutching at the fabric, eyes staring into the warm glow of the fire that Merlin started with a glance and a casual wave of his hand. He’d spend them sipping at a goblet of warmed wine as Merlin nattered on about everything, about nothing, until something managed to crack a smile from him and then Merlin would start beaming until his smile couldn’t help but grow, because that damned grin was infectious.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” Arthur groused as he watched Merlin with a sharp eye. It wasn’t the first time his master had insisted on leaving the royal chamber, but it was the first time he’d traipsed down to the lower town since the incident with the Questing Beast. Arthur hovered close, watching, waiting for the first sign of weakness so he could sweep in and save Merlin from falling on his stupid face. “Are you sure you’re ready, Sire?”

“No, but that just makes your anxious fretting twice as entertaining.”

“I don’t fret.”

Merlin snorted in amusement.

“Much.”

“Better,” Merlin teased as the pair navigated a path through the hustle and bustle of merchants and townsfolk. “You’re learning! I’m so proud.”

Arthur scowled at his back.

Cabal barked and bounded around their feet and almost tripped a dozen merchants in the process. Originally, he’d intended to return the pup to the kennel as soon as possible...but his intentions never came to fruition – not after it became a habit to scratch him between the ears before heading down to the kitchens for breakfast. Merlin never complained about his presence. If anything, it seemed to please his master to wake up to endless licks and boundless affection from the enthusiastic ball of fur – which made a mess of the wardrobe as soon as Arthur wasn’t looking, the rascal.

Merlin paused on his path through the lower town now and then to oversee the various reparations being made. The houses damaged during the attack from the Questing Beast were too numerous to count and seeing them in states of such disrepair sent flashes of guilt through Arthur over and over, the feeling cold and sharp, like the steel claw that ripped open his back. Arthur shifted closer to his master, his face flaming when Cabal started whining, attracting the attention of more than a few of the townsmen. The few that weren’t grateful for his killing the Questing Beast were glaring, hostile and unwelcoming.

Arthur couldn’t blame them. He blamed his own existence too – and the King, but he wasn’t stupid enough to express that aloud. None of those in the know were. Merlin looked askance at him and Arthur wanted so much to take his hand to stave off the nerves bubbling up inside his own chest. He raised his chin in a show of defiance instead – just like he did in the Crystal Cave – and watched the men falter and then return to their duties without a word. Arthur glanced at Merlin and the private smile his master gave him almost made him want to close the distance and steal a kiss despite the crowd bustling around them. It almost made him want to damn the consequences.

“Hurry up,” said Merlin as he tore his attention away, face tinged with colour, and Arthur knew his master wasn’t as unaffected as he seemed at first glance. Arthur beamed until his face started aching. Knowing his budding confidence had such an effect on Merlin sent a thrill down his spine. He’d have to work on that. He’d have to perfect it until he had it down to an art form that Merlin could appreciate even more one day, when he and Merlin could set the foundations for that looming future together, when neither of them needed to live in fear of discovery. Just the thought of that looming future sent an exquisite ache through him. “Arthur, how’s your sister faring? Is she well?”

“Unfortunately, Gwen doesn’t have magic to quicken her recovery, but Gaius said that most of our own restorative qualities are based on willpower, and Gwen has that in spades. I have complete faith in her,” said Arthur, his smile softening when Merlin let their hands brush against each other, just enough to send a tingle racing across his skin. His heart skipped a beat. “I’m sure she’d appreciate a visit from Your Highness. Gwen had to relocate after what happened: the forge isn’t the place for a healing wound.”

“Consider it done.”

The forge and the new scaffolding around the wreckage of his childhood home loomed into view ahead of them and Arthur scooped Cabal up, preventing the little scamp from making mischief as the repairmen hastened about. He spied Lancelot and Kay working overhead together, and Robyn and Pellinore working below, the four of them having volunteered their assistance to atone for their perceived portion of the blame for the incident with the Questing Beast. But the house wasn’t just being repaired – it was being remodelled at his master’s insistence and paid for with his own personal funds. Tom had at first made a diplomatic refusal of the offer, until Merlin summoned him to the castle one morning, and Merlin spoke to him in private after sending Arthur on a pointless errand. He’d tried to weasel the information out of them after, but neither of them would budge on the matter, the pair wearing tight smiles that vexed him to no end.

“You never said Pellinore and his band were helping!”

“Was I supposed to?”

“I wish you had.” Merlin frowned and reached for the pup, plucking him from his grasp and cradling him close. His pale hand stroked over the dark fur. He looked over at Arthur, his mouth thinning with the weight of his concerns. His voice quietened to little more than a murmur. “I’m not sure the funding can stretch far enough to cover their labour as well. I’ll have to think of something else. What do you recommend I do?”

“Nothing,” Arthur answered gently, stepping closer, a smile curling his mouth upon hearing that warm concern in his voice. “You secured those men leave to enter the citadel _and_ a position in the guardhouse starting next month. You also tried to secure a position for Robyn – regardless of her later refusal. I think you’ve done much more than enough. More than we deserve. Pellinore and his band volunteered to help, Sire. Payment from you isn’t required.”

“Nothing?”

“Maybe some praise for a job well done?” Arthur reached out and scratched Cabal between the ears. His smile grew when their hands brushed together, earning another private smile and a faint hint of a blush. Merlin looked down at Cabal and then back up, his dark eyelashes fanning, casting a faint shadow across his skin. “But I plan on doing that myself when the remodelling is finished. I’d planned to tip them too. It won’t be much...but something, so you can knock that off your plate.”

Merlin blinked at him in surprise.

“What?” Arthur huffed and looked away, face heating. “Townsmen plan for emergencies too, you know. I’ve been setting a fraction of my pay aside since I started working here. You pay me too well. I have too much coin to spare after the essentials are covered. What else was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know. Treat yourself?”

“I do...sometimes. I bought those apples during the harvest last year!”

“You had one and gave the rest away,” Merlin scoffed with a dismissive wave. He continued on his way, forcing Arthur to scramble after him in order to keep up. “I wouldn’t consider that as you having treated yourself.”

“Maybe I get satisfaction out of being nice.”

“You know how to be nice? I’m shocked!” Merlin smirked over his shoulder, the expression warm and teasing, his eyes playful and sparkling. Arthur bit back the urge to give him a sharp swat. He couldn’t swat the Prince of Camelot and Mercia in public – no matter how much it would have amused his master, who would often back him up into a corner after, smirking, making threatening promises that were laced with so much flirtation that it made Arthur blush and look away, fingers gripping supple leather as Merlin would lean in and nuzzle at his neck until his knees weakened. “How dare you mislead me?”

Arthur might have said something, but for the too-familiar man that slammed into him in passing, the force strong enough to knock him to the ground. He bit back a shout of pain as the new skin stretched pink and raw across his healing shoulder ripped anew, blood welling, staining his tunic as Arthur slammed an elbow to prevent himself from smacking his head off the ground. Arthur glared at Jeffrey, but said nothing as his childhood tormentor kept walking, looking so much taller and stronger than he ever did as a boy, and even then he’d been a damned menace. 

“Hey, watch where you’re going,” Merlin snapped in anger, his magic wrapping warm and loving around Arthur, urging him up, helping him to his feet. Cabal whined in his arms. His voice hardened when Jeffrey failed to stop. “Look at me when I’m talking to you!”

“Just let it go,” muttered Arthur, his face flaming, his shoulder weeping, and his heart thundering as his childhood tormentor paused and turned at the command. He reached for Cabal and used him as a shield against the stare levelled at him – the same one that accompanied each shove and punch and kick he’d been given as a child. Arthur looked at Merlin. “Please.”

“I can’t.” His voice was hard and tight and unforgiving, but when he looked at Arthur...there was a shimmer of understanding, as though Merlin could feel his intense discomfort and fear. “A slight against the household is a slight against me and a slight against me is a slight against the King. That can’t go unpunished.” Merlin marched over to Jeffrey, shoulders squared and narrow frame tense with anger, his expression a mask of cold command. “Tell me your name?”

“Jeffrey Webster, Your Highness.”

Merlin stared at him hard before saying, “At least you learned something when growing up. You will report to the Captain for your punishment. You’re to spend eight hours in the stocks – beginning at once.”

Jeffrey seemed to suck on something sour, threw a cold and promising glare at Arthur, and then bowed to Merlin before continuing on his way. He headed straight for the guardhouse as commanded. Jeffrey wasn’t stupid enough to disobey a direct command from the Prince of Camelot and Mercia.

“He looked familiar.”

“He should.” Arthur scratched Cabal between the ears to soothe his own nerves. His heart still thumped after receiving the unspoken threat. “He joined the ranks when he was eighteen and was discharged for dishonourable behaviour last year. The Captain had him whipped as well – fifteen lashes.”

“What did he do?”

“He stabbed a bandit that surrendered and offered his blade.”

“Despicable!”

“Can you believe Deorwynn is his cousin?”

“Tell me you’re joking.”

“Wish I was.”

Merlin scowled at the distant figure until Jeffrey disappeared from view, his jaw still tight with anger, and then he looked Arthur and softened. “Let me have a look at your shoulder.”

Arthur set Cabal down. He looked down at Cabal sternly, and then smiled when the pup remained sitting, tilting his head and whining as Arthur pulled his tunic up and off with a grimace of pain. He kept the tunic tight against his chest to keep himself modest as Merlin moved around behind him. Calluses brushed against the tender skin across his shoulder, and Arthur bit back a moan as heat flared in his stomach. His manhood twitched. His hands tightened around the material in his grasp.

“Just a small tear,” murmured his master, his voice soft and tender. His warm breath ghosted across bared skin. “Don’t worry; I can heal this easily. Then I’ll clean your tunic. It won’t take more than a moment. Okay?”

“I’m not worried.” The words escaped breathless and rushed as Arthur felt the magic swell behind him. His eyes fluttered closed as the heat in his stomach refused to abate. If anything, it intensified as Arthur couldn’t help but imagine those calluses pressing elsewhere: upon all those sensitive places he never dared to touch when he was alone. He couldn’t help but imagine those familiar tendrils of magic winding around his wrists or around his thighs...or even around his manhood. His face flamed at the thought. His toes curled. Arthur sucked his lip between his teeth as a shiver of want rippled through him. “Just get on with it!”

“So demanding!”

“Don’t pretend you don’t like me that way,” Arthur mumbled as the magic enveloped him at last. It soothed across his damaged skin like a warm balm. His shoulder tingled as the wound knitted together, new skin forming, just as tender and sensitive as ever. The magic cleansed him of blood then and slipped over his shoulder to find the blood staining his tunic. Arthur was quick to slip the tunic back on once the magic withdrew and turned to face his master, catching him when Merlin started wobbling, his pale face drained of even more colour. He wanted to sweep Merlin up, and carry him back to the royal chamber, ensuring that nothing else happened to him...but he knew Merlin wouldn’t appreciate being handled like a swooning maiden. “Don’t be such a martyr, you idiot. Just send me to Gaius the next time.”

“I’ll just throw a punch the next time someone knocks you to the ground.”

“The Prince can’t just go around punching people.”

“The Prince can do whatever he wants.”

“Tell that to the King,” said Arthur, a startled burst of laughter escaping him despite the discussion. “I’d wager he’d be quick to tell you otherwise.”

Merlin said nothing, but smiled like an idiot as his hand slipped down and touched the blade strapped to his waist. He touched the gemstone there. Arthur watched him grow stronger, watched the colour returning, watched him become the wilful and determined nobleman he’d fallen in love with – when he wasn’t being an annoying, infuriating, talkative imbecile that he also loved for reasons he couldn’t even fathom. Reasons he didn’t want to fathom.

“Better?”

Merlin hummed and pulled away, straightening, continuing down the road and approaching the forge and scaffolding. He whistled to attract the attention of the repairmen. Arthur snapped his fingers to muster Cabal from his seated position and scrambled after his master, his concern waning, but his determination to keep an eye on Merlin waxing.


	19. Chapter Eighteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to get this chapter finished yesterday, but I couldn't. I was so numb after hearing the news about the US. Now, I'm not numb, but still more distressed than I can bear and I can only imagine how much worse it is for those living there.
> 
> To those of you who are American and voted Blue:
> 
> Keep your chin up.
> 
> Take it one day at a time.
> 
> You're not alone.

Gwen did appreciate the visit from Merlin – even if she grew so flustered that she dropped a goblet of water on herself more than once. Arthur, holding Cabal and unable to speak for laughing, had been no help to either of them. Merlin had been tentative during their short visit. He’d seemed almost afraid to upset her, as though one wrong word could send Gwen into a fit of dismay, but he’d left with a beaming smile in the end and Arthur had followed after him with a tired pup at his heel.

Now, just over a week later, Arthur smiled as he helped Merlin dress for the banquet to mark the death of Nimueh. Merlin babbled about something inane. He wasn’t quite certain what: he’d stopped listening, choosing instead to focus on lacing up the deep purple doublet and then smoothing the creases away, his hands lingering, luxuriating in the softness of the material against his skin. Arthur wanted so much to feel it elsewhere. His thumb grazed against the pale skin of that tantalising throat. He watched the vulnerable apple bob, his heart thumping, and looked up to see Merlin watching him in quiet anticipation. He’d never noticed that Merlin had stopped talking, that the hands running over him had distracted Merlin from the inane subject matter, summoning his attention at once.

Merlin caught his wrist and squeezed just so, caressing, his thumb stroking over the pulse point. It was an exquisite torture. One that made heat flare in his stomach and his heart skip a beat. Arthur leaned closer, his free hand now quivering where he grasped the doublet in front of him and his head tilting, his lips parting as warm breath ghosted across his skin. He leaned in until the smallest distance separated them...until he could feel the barest tingle of that tempting mouth against his.

Merlin tightened his grip.

“One day,” murmured Arthur, his eyes fluttering closed. The promise ached inside him as Merlin tightened his grip in understanding, his master repeating the promise as a ragged whisper, just as he and Merlin had been whispering back and forth since he’d confessed to knowing that Merlin and Emrys were the same man. Keeping his distance seemed so much harder now that he knew the truth about Merlin and about their future together, now that he and Merlin had become so much more intimate without crossing that final...tantalising...torturous...and exquisite line. “One day, I won’t have to pull back. One day, we won’t have to be afraid anymore. We just need to hold on a while longer. We can last that long, can’t we?”

“Of course, we can...but I’d rather not wait that long,” Merlin said through an agonised smile when Arthur withdrew a fraction and let his eyes drift back open. A hand slid up to cradle his jaw. “I’d rather abscond with you and never come back.”

“The King would never stop hunting us.”

“I’m aware of that...but a life on the run with you would almost be better than being stuck here – knowing you’re so far away, but still too close.” A callused thumb grazed his bottom lip and Arthur shivered at the sensation. “This barrier between us is unbearable.”

“Because you find me irresistible,” Arthur teased before brushing a kiss against the pad of that callused thumb. He offered a small and tentative smile despite the growing ache in his chest. “I’m sorry that I can’t give you more yet. I’m sorry that I’m...who I am.”

“Arthur, don’t ever do that.” Two hands cradled his face now, warm and loving, but firm as Merlin looked at him. A golden spark ignited in his gaze. Arthur swallowed and stared at him in return despite the thunderous beat of his heart. Merlin had made sure to reintroduce him to the golden glow, to make it less of a reminder, to help him associate magic with something better than what happened in the Crystal Cave. “Don’t ever apologise for being who you are or for not being able to do something.”

“But –”

“I’m serious.” Merlin leaned in and pressed a tender kiss against the bridge of his nose. A strangled noise escaped Arthur, his face slackening with pleasure even as his whole frame tingled with want. The press of those lips was too exquisite to be natural. “I never want to hear you apologising for that. None of us choose our families. None of us have control over what our kin choose to do. And anyone unwilling to wait for you to be safe isn’t worth your time in the first place.”

“But you’d rather not wait!”

“Not being enthused about our circumstances doesn’t mean I’m unwilling to wait for you to be safe. I’d wait forever to take that last step with you.” Merlin peppered kisses across eyelids that fluttered shut and then across his cheekbones until Arthur almost whined with how much he wanted so much more than these innocent kisses. A warm smile bloomed against his skin. “Now, please pull yourself together; we have a banquet to attend.”

“Of course, Sire. Right away,” agreed Arthur, withdrawing, his hands smoothing away the wrinkles he’d created with his grip. He sucked his lip between his teeth and remembered the press of those lips against his skin. He let himself imagine them pressed elsewhere. Merlin smirked as though he knew what he was imagining, what he wanted Merlin to do, both to him and with him. Neither of them spoke as Arthur combed raven hair into submission and settled the silver coronet upon his head. It refused to sit straight...as usual. The combination of coronet and purple doublet made Merlin seem twice as handsome – not that he’d ever admit such a thing aloud: Merlin would never let him hear the end of it.

Arthur made sure Merlin was immaculate in appearance – with the scabbard of his favourite blade secured to one side of his belt and Carnwennan secured to the other. One couldn’t be too careful when known witches would be attending the banquet that night. He was just bitter that he couldn’t keep Carnwennan secured to his own belt while in the castle; it wasn’t permitted. Should an incident occur, Merlin would have to hand the blade to him or Arthur would have to summon her to his grasp, one hand wrapped around the crystal hanging from his neck.

Just as he had in the Crystal Cave.

Arthur and Merlin vacated the chamber together, the former locking the door and securing the key to his own belt. He accompanied Merlin down staircase after staircase and through corridor after corridor, ensuring he remained a few respectful feet behind his master, chin raised in pride at being his manservant.

The banquet hall was decorated in sombre colours. The nobles dotted throughout the banquet hall were conversing with each other, struggling to cover up their cheer, their endless relief at the death of Nimueh the previous month. Merlin made a bee line for Sir Lamorak and Sir Tor, the pair chatting near the farthest corner, the latter making the former laugh hard enough to clutch his side. Arthur was hot on his heels.

Sir Lamorak clapped Merlin on the shoulder once he’d stopped laughing.

Sir Tor smiled at Arthur, his expression warm and jovial. He’d been smiling a great deal ever since the incident with the chalice backfired and Arthur didn’t end up dead in the antechamber. He’d even started visiting Merlin and Arthur in the royal chamber, often exhausted after patrolling or training, but still eager to spend time with them. Now, Arthur smiled at his friend in return and then looked away, his focus sharpening, searching for men or women that disconcerted him. Banquets still made him uncomfortable. Honestly, after the banquet two years ago, such events made him more uncomfortable than he ever was before.

His hand itched to wrap around a hilt that wasn’t there.

“You know,” murmured Sir Tor, sidling up to Arthur as Merlin began mingling with another courtier, “not all banquets are going to be like that one.” The Knight chuckled then and gripped his shoulder, his hand squeezing with just the right amount of pressure. “Don’t give me that innocent look. I know you too well. Arthur, you can’t spend the rest of your life expecting His Highness to be stabbed in the back...or poisoned...or whatever other fears are running through your head right now. You need to believe His Highness can garner the faith and love of his people wherever he walks.”

“I believe in him more than you know.” Arthur let his eyes scan the banquet hall once more. He searched each new arrival and his mind categorised them according to familiarity, according to their court associations and their previous behaviour around his master, according to even the faintest unfamiliar twitches of their facial muscles. He’d learned how to sniff out a rat since his employment began. “But I can’t assume that all people are going to be decent. I’ve met enough rotten apples to know better. Blind trust would just get His Highness killed.”

Sir Tor said nothing, but sighed and reached out to ruffle his hair, which earned him a scowl and a swat not quite hard enough to sting. He chuckled in surprised delight then. He pulled Arthur closer, his movements almost as fast as lightning, entrapping him in a headlock. Then his knuckles started grinding against his scalp. Arthur squawked and tried to squirm away, but Sir Tor was a determined blighter, holding him fast.

The Knight was relentless.

Arthur barked out an awkward laugh when another hand found where his tunic had ridden up in the struggle and gloved fingers met vulnerable skin before he could shove his tunic back down. He was no match for the questing fingers. Laugh after laugh escaped him as Ninianne edged closer, taking advantage of his predicament and giggling, her face brightening with a grin of delight.

Fortunately, her antics made Sir Tor cease his grinding in favour of chuckling, his strong arms loosening so he wouldn’t harm Arthur without meaning to. The barrel of his chest heaving, Arthur managed to escape at last and whirled to face Sir Tor, his face flushed and his eyes ablaze with wild emotion. His own quick fingers dived for that neck and that hint of collarbone on display, and Sir Tor jumped back a step with a loud squeak. Grinning in victory, Arthur went after him at once and backed him up into the nearest corner, and Sir Tor dissolved into a puddle of giggles when Arthur started tickling, his fingertips quick and light against that vulnerable skin. He made no move to relent until someone cleared their throat right behind him.

Arthur, feeling as though someone had doused him with a bucket of frostbitten water, whipped around to see Councillor Ares arching a perfect eyebrow and giving him a thin smile that carried no trace of good humour. He remembered where he was then. He remembered that he couldn’t just have fun in the banquet hall without earning fierce disapproval from the court and from the King, who was staring at him hard now, hand wrapped around the hilt of his blade as though he were itching to cross the banquet hall and lop off his head with one fell swing. Fear drained his face of colour. His hand itched to wrap around Carnwennan again. Arthur took a long moment to straighten himself up, his gaze fastened upon the stone floor, heedless of the concerned glance from Sir Lamorak. Sir Tor and Ninianne gave each of his wrists a supporting squeeze when he was done; their own cheerful mood had evaporated.

Pulling his wrists from their grasp, Arthur raised his head when he felt that distinctive anger flaring up, and started moving as soon as King Bayard pointed at him and then pointed at the stone in front of him.

“Your Majesty.” Arthur ignored the urge to seek out his master and bowed his head upon reaching King Bayard. Being near the man that loathed him so much made the new purpling bruise decorating his thigh throb. He’d received it from the King the other day. King Bayard had summoned him to his chamber while Merlin was training, and Arthur had spent that time biting back shouts of pain before being reduced to feeble moans that forced their escape as the King vented his drunken rage and snarled over and over that Arthur was to blame for the death of his dearest kin – his illegitimate brother, Balinor. Arthur had received his fair share of broken bones and bruises that afternoon and the pain had continued long after King Bayard sank into his favoured chair and passed out from a fusion of wine consumption and exhaustion. He’d managed to wrap broken and bloodied fingers around his crystal and he’d choked on a scream when that powerful blaze of magic tore through his body, snapping bones into place and healing his insides in one white-hot sweep. He’d healed most of the bruises as well. Arthur hadn’t been able to look Merlin in the eye when he returned from training to find him sitting on the stone floor in the royal chamber, Cabal bestowing endless affection upon him and whining in distress. “How can I serve you?”

“You can start with dropping the servile act.” King Bayard snared a goblet of wine meant for someone else from a passing maidservant and took a sip. The purest loathing coloured his stare. “Don’t pretend to respect me.”

“Your Majesty, I don’t pretend to respect you. I respect the fact that you’re the King.” Arthur spoke quietly, his frame tensed and ready, prepared to bolt the moment King Bayard drew his blade. His hand itched to wrap around Carnwennan once more. He took note of each miniscule movement the King made and calculated how long it would take him to draw his blade. Arthur calculated how long it would take him to duck and roll to avoid the first swing of steel. How long it would take him to get to the door compared to how long it would the guards to reach and outnumber him. How long Merlin or Sir Tor could give him without making their interference in his escape too obvious. How long it would take him to cross the border and reach the Queen of Cornwall – regardless of whatever enchantment might still be in place. He’d spent the first few months of his station in the castle memorising the multitude of siege tunnels beneath the citadel. He’d plotted the quickest escape route months ago – just in case something occurred to necessitate a quick escape with Merlin. Fortune favoured the prepared. The calculations continued to whir through his head as King Bayard sharpened his stare. “I respect the throne of Camelot. Don’t mistake that for pretending to respect you.”

“You know,” began the King, the words falling like a harsh snow, frostbitten and an obvious sign of a dangerous and deepening winter, “one would almost think you were spoiling for a fight tonight.”

“On the contrary, Your Majesty,” answered Arthur, his bruised thigh throbbing even harder as the King gave him a lethal smile and raked him with that familiar gaze laced with so much loathing. He raised his chin as he felt the other servants casting anxious glances at him and the King. His peripheral senses noticed Deorwynn skirting the edge of the banquet hall and approaching his master, who’d manoeuvred himself around until he could keep an eye on Arthur, mingling with the other nobles all the while. Arthur could sense the warm thrum of his concern. “I don’t condone resorting to violence without reasonable provocation. I just want to be left in peace.”

“I’d rather leave you in pieces.”

“Should you find a reason to...then I respect your right as King to make that decision.” Arthur plastered on a smile that felt strained despite the urge to cower where he stood and repeated what he’d been trained to say. “How can I serve you?”

“You can’t serve me.” King Bayard narrowed his gaze. “I just wanted to remind you where your purpose lies: you aren’t here to have fun. You aren’t here to mingle. You’re here to work. Don’t forget it.”

“I won’t forget a second time.”

“You’d best not. Now...get out of here.” The King waved a dismissive hand and allowed Arthur to retreat a step before saying, “Your luck will run out one day, and when that time comes...I’m going to make you suffer, Arthur Pendragon. I’ll make you suffer until you plead for death and then I’ll keep going.”

_You can try_ , Arthur almost wanted to say, _but Merlin will tear you apart long before you get the chance. He’d tear you apart now were I brave enough to tell him what you’ve done. What you do to me when he isn’t looking. Don’t think that he won’t. Don’t pretend to believe he won’t cast aside his affection for you in favour of justice and honour; we both know better._

But Arthur said nothing. He did nothing, but bow in a show of respect and retreat a safe distance as his hands started to quiver; his thigh throbbed so hard he thought it would give out beneath him. He kept walking until he bumped into one of the tables and his bruise screamed in pain. A spasm ran through his muscle; Arthur refrained from weeping through sheer force of will and kept going, swallowing past the lump developing, inhaling through his nose and clenching his jaw until the tendons ached. He wouldn’t weep, not in front of the King, and not in front of the other serving staff watching him now, discreet in both their concern and their admiration.

Honestly, the admiration surprised him.

He didn’t deserve their admiration. He hadn’t been brave. He’d done nothing but wear a mask to conceal the emotions brewing beneath the surface.

Arthur, however, understood the concern with ease. He’d been stupid when acting the fool with Ninianne and Sir Tor, so stupid to think he could have a good time in front of the King of Camelot and Mercia. He’d been twice as stupid to think he could dance through a game of words with him when King Bayard had more experience with diplomacy, in spite of all the deeds blackening his seat of power, his honour and his name. It was arrogant of Arthur to believe he could be as good as a King with more than two decades of experience with both tongue and steel. It was arrogant of him to believe he could ever be an equal. He might have continued down that line of thinking, were it not for the hand that found his and squeezed gently, Ninianne looking up at him like she wanted so much to give him a hug.

Arthur squeezed her hand in return and tried to smile down at her, tried to reassure her that he wasn’t about to fall to pieces after his encounter with King Bayard. Her glove was warm and soft against his skin.

“Will you take me out bird-watching tomorrow?”

“Of course,” answered Arthur, surprised at the unexpected question. He felt a genuine smile curling his mouth as he arched an eyebrow. “But I can remember a certain young madam saying it sounded boring.”

“Opinions can change. Things that seem set in stone right now can shift in the future.” Ninianne smiled up at him and squeezed his hand again. Her smile failed to reach her eyes. Her voice wavered. “All it takes is time...and patience...and persistence.”

“Is that so?” Arthur raised his head and searched for his master, who was now in deep discussion with a courtier, but Merlin was still shooting concerned glances at him. He offered Merlin a reassuring smile that wasn’t even a strain as he escorted Ninianne across the banquet hall and over to her elder brother. Merlin dismissed the courtier speaking to him as Arthur and Ninianne approached him. Arthur spoke all the while. “Do you think other people could be persuaded to go bird-watching with us? Do you think other people will want to? Would it even be worthwhile?”

“I don’t know, Arthur.” Ninianne frowned and looked around the banquet hall. Her hand tightened a fraction around his. “I think that depends on you. How worthwhile do you think bird-watching is? People who aren’t certain need to be encouraged. Show them how worthwhile you think it is. Show them it won’t be a mistake to support it. You need to remember: time...and patience...and persistence. Maybe a spark of courage could help as well. But don’t ever give up on bird-watching. I know I won’t be giving up on it. I can’t wait for tomorrow!”

And then Ninianne left him to make a wild dash for her brother, flinging her arms around his middle and almost toppling him over, earning a warm laugh and an even warmer hug. A smile curled his mouth as Arthur watched them embrace each other despite the ache flaring deep within his chest. What he would have given to embrace Merlin in the open like that. What he would still give. Honestly, the strength of that urge staggered him. Arthur watched them until King Bayard moved toward the head table and Merlin followed soon after, glancing at Arthur, smiling, his hand stark against Ninianne’s gloved one.

Arthur followed after them and took his usual place.

No one in the banquet hall could take their seat until the King did so, but he remained standing, overlooking the chamber and the people within as his personal manservant scurried through the door and murmured something to King Bayard. He bowed and retreated when the King dismissed him with a wave. The entire banquet hall paid close attention to the speech made before the double-doors opened and the contingent of witches made an appearance.

The atmosphere shifted as the first witch made an entrance.

The woman wasn’t as tall as some small part of Arthur had expected. Her movements were fluid and clear, underlining the subtle grace in her posture and the thick curves to her frame. Her hair spilled down from her head like so much blood. The witch seemed to pierce the depths of his soul when she looked his way, her russet stare unnerving, and a flicker of recognition flashing across her face. She stared at him for a long moment and then looked away, down at the child walking beside her, his blue stare just as unnerving before he frowned and looked up; the expressions dancing across their features made it plain that a silent conversation was taking place.

The second witch to enter was a much younger woman that couldn’t have been older than Arthur. She cut through the room like sharpened steel. Her raven hair was swept back in a thick braid that reached her waist. She wore dark trousers and chainmail and an armoured corset where the first witch wore a dress as simple as something Gwen would wear on a regular day, when she wasn’t dressing herself in the fine clothes she’d made for herself on occasion – despite never having the chance to wear them outside. A sword with an alexandrite embedded in the pommel hung from the belt strapped across her narrow hips. The witch seemed at home with the blade at her side: as though she’d spent her entire life learning to wield it. Arthur admired the ease with which she moved through the banquet hall and then startled when she looked straight at him. Her gaze was sharp, sharper than the line of her jaw, and perhaps even sharper then the blade she’d armed herself with.

Kohl made the green of her eyes twice as staggering.

Arthur wrenched his attention away, unnerved by the intensity, and focused instead on the arrival that came after: a woman with skin almost as dark as shadow and a mass of raven curls in which a man could suffocate. Her flowing robes were the colour of fresh snow. It was a brilliant contrast that set the witch aglow, making of her a vibrant light amid the sombre colours spread across the banquet hall. Men and women alike watched her drift across the vast chamber and stop before the King, bowing, just as the rest of the sisterhood had done – though Arthur thought the second witch seemed a bit stiff in her bow, as though she could imagine a thousand better things to do.

Honestly, he could understand the sentiment.

Arthur often imagined something better to do than bowing before the King, but that wasn’t a choice he could make now. Not yet. Someday, however, that choice would be his for the first time. Maybe not the next day, and maybe not within the next year, but one day he’d choose to bow before a far more just and honourable King, and his bow would be even more powerful for having chosen to do it. Just as it should be. Arthur glanced at Merlin and felt something galvanise inside his chest. He’d bow to Merlin in a heartbeat. He’d bow to Merlin and it wouldn’t be the moderate bow he used now, but deeper, fortified with all the respect and love and pride he felt whenever he looked at his benevolent master. He’d kneel before Merlin and he’d swear an oath of allegiance before kissing the signet ring, the symbol of his power, the final proof that Merlin was King of Camelot and Mercia.

Such dreams distracted him through the rest of the welcome speech. He didn’t even catch the names of the priestesses or the name of the child accompanying them. He had a feeling, however, that the first witch – the oldest of them – was the one he’d heard of before: Soredamor, the highest ranking Priestess of the Old Religion and niece to Gorlois Le Fay, who’d been the most trusted advisor to Uther Pendragon.

Gorlois Le Fay was killed during the siege of Camelot or so Gaius had informed him the previous winter, answering one of the many rapid-fire questions Arthur had asked as he volunteered to help Gaius replenish his store of pastes and tinctures. Gorlois been left in charge of the mustering men as Uther – unarmed and clad in nothing but a nightshirt and dressing gown – raced through a castle in chaos to get Arthur somewhere safe. His father had been down in the kitchens with Arthur, long after the kitchen staff had retired for the evening, warming some milk and attempting to soothe him. Apparently, according to the personal accounts written by his father, Arthur had woken screaming that night. He’d been in an inexplicable panic. Druids claimed children – even the most mundane of them – had some sixth sense that alerted them to danger, and maybe that was what had happened with Arthur, but he would never know for sure.

All he knew was that the escape routes had been blocked: more enemies had spilled from the most secret tunnels and his father had been forced to retreat from each escape route he’d mapped out. He’d been corralled back toward his chambers where he’d made a last stand against Bayard.

No one knew what happened to Gorlois’ infant daughter that night or the nursemaid devoted to looking after her. No one knew whether the pair had been killed during the siege or whether the pair managed to escape somehow; none would confess to having murdered a defenceless woman and child. None would admit to letting them escape.

Arthur focused when the feast began at last. It didn’t matter that the second witch kept staring across the banquet hall. Kept staring right at him. Nothing mattered but serving his master, who nodded at Arthur, beckoning him forward to decant some wine into his goblet. Merlin smiled up at him and then looked away, focusing upon the witch seated nearest him.

“Soredamor, I hope you can forgive me for inquiring,” said Merlin as he slathered bread with butter, “but I was under the impression that a Priestess of the Old Religion must be celibate. Isn’t that your son? I could feel the strength of your bond the moment you walked in.”

“I can see why you’d be confused. Normally, a Priestess of the Old Religion is required to be celibate...but there are certain circumstances that trump the vow, Your Highness. The Horned God chose me to run the year Mordred was conceived and I participated in the ritual to ensure the continued prospering of Albion.”

“I see.” Merlin took a bite of his bread roll and chewed for a long moment before swallowing, saying, “I thought four priestesses were living on the Isle of the Blessed. Did the fourth remain behind?”

“No, I’m afraid Morgause Le Fay – a close cousin of mine – left the sisterhood last year; a nobleman from Essetir courted and married her before the spring waned.” A troubled frown wrinkled bronze skin. Soredamor glanced at her goblet and then over her shoulder at Arthur, who’d tensed at the name mentioned and remembered the moment Tristan de Bois almost named his sister, but he stepped forward regardless and filled her goblet. He and Merlin shared the briefest glance before Arthur retreated and continued eavesdropping on the conversation. “Our home hasn’t been the same without her, Your Highness. Morgause was a notable mage and I’m sure Essetir has benefited much since her relocation.”

“I thought the Priestesses of the Old Religion were peaceful?”

“We are...but a large number of us were slaughtered during the Great Purge because we couldn’t stomach killing another human being, and the Blood Guard trained to protect us was almost eradicated in the battle against Uther Pendragon. I escaped because a dragon intervened at the risk of their own life.” Soredamor looked down the length of the table at the child seated beside Ninianne. Her frown softened with love and then hardened with resolve and determination. “We won’t be so unwilling the next time.”

Arthur stiffened at the phrase.

“You think there’ll be a next time?” Merlin gazed at Soredamor, his expression contemplative and more than a little concerned as she shifted and returned his gaze without quailing for even a moment. “Don’t you think men can be better than that?”

“I don’t think betterment is permanent. History proves it hasn’t been. The Great Purge wasn’t the first time someone took their grief or rage out on those who have magic and it won’t be the last time. Someone will start the cycle of bloodshed all over again: the one thing we don’t know is when that hatred will come out in the open again. It could be a decade from now, or a century from now, or even a millennium from now...but it will happen. People will grow distant from the atrocities once committed and then start them anew, believing their pursuits and ideals better and so much wiser, believing their actions are going to help, but it never helps in the end. Those people are inflamed with their own self-importance and hateful radicalism and the good people of Albion will suffer for it.”

“Doesn’t that make the peace we can achieve all the more precious? Doesn’t it make what we teach our children all the more important? We aren’t born with hatred festering in our veins; it is something we learn from those who came before us. Teaching our children to love instead of fear and hate can do so much for the future. I believe in that future.”

“Then I hope your optimism remains strong, Your Highness. Such optimism is as important as acknowledging the problems we face. Hope was burned out of me a long time ago,” said Soredamor before eating a grape or two. A sigh heaved out of her. “Perhaps I should introduce you to Morgana after the feast. Your hope and her cunning would make a fine pair.”

Arthur slid his gaze over to the second witch at the utterance of her name and found her still staring, her mouth curling into a smirk.

He just knew.


	20. Chapter Nineteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains magical restraints.
> 
> As always, feel free to let me know what you think.

The feast continued without incident. Merlin dismissed him with a wave of his hand when it ended and Arthur moved across the banquet hall with familiar ease until he reached the table set aside for the serving staff. He smiled at Deorwynn. She grinned in return and held out a small plate. He accepted immediately, the pair mirroring each other, weighing their plates down with food that smelled too good to be real. His stomach grumbled something fierce.

“I know that feeling.” Deorwynn made a face. “I was convinced I wouldn’t see the end of the feast because I’d fall down with hunger or something. At least His Highness doesn’t rub your station in your face and make you wait even longer to eat. I haven’t eaten since breakfast!”

“He’d never do that to someone in his household.” Arthur glanced across the banquet hall and looked at his master, who was once again mingling, smiling down at young Mordred and Ninianne as he drew the pair into a discussion. Warm affection swelled inside him. He looked back down at his plate and swallowed the urge to smile like an idiot. “His Highness is the kindest man I know. I’m fortunate he chose me. I know no other noble would have trusted me that much. No other noble would have given me a chance. It was a lot different with the townsmen: hating me didn’t mean the townsmen weren’t willing to have an extra hand around.”

“But it must have been hard.” Deorwynn touched his arm. Guilt washed across her features when Arthur looked at her. She chewed her lip. “I know we weren’t the nicest to you or the most welcoming when you needed someone to be. I don’t understand how you can forgive us for how we’ve treated you. How you’ve managed to become such an upstanding man when someone else in your place could have become twice as bitter and cruel instead.”

“Growing up in Camelot was harder than you know,” murmured Arthur, taking a moment to take a bite of bread slathered in the finest honest honey, “but I don’t want to be the kind of man that can’t let go of what happened in the past. I want to be remembered for being me...not for being like someone that I don’t even want to name. I don’t want to treat other people as I’ve been treated. What would be the point? That won’t make Camelot a better place to live. I just want Camelot be a place in which people dream of living.”

Arthur demolished the rest of his bread and began sucking the honey from his fingers in contentment. He knew it made him look like an uncouth fool...but he didn’t care in the slightest. Honey was damned delicious. Still sucking honey from his forefinger, Arthur looked across the large banquet hall at his master and then flushed when he found Merlin staring, distracted from whatever he’d been discussing, his lips parting and his eyes darkening with palpable desire. Shivering, and his manhood twitching, Arthur dropped his hand as though it had burned his tongue and looked away, stuffing a few grapes into his mouth before he could do something stupid.

Arthur shouldn’t have looked at Merlin. All he could think about now was slathering that tempting mouth with honey, and then slathering other tempting places with honey, and then licking him clean until Merlin glistened in the soft candlelight that often illuminated the royal chamber. His toes curled at the thought. Stomach flaring with heat and his face flaming, Arthur continued eating, avoiding the knowing glance from the maidservant beside him. But Deorwynn wasn’t fooled in the slightest. How could she be when Arthur was acting like a man stricken with ardour? He just hoped the King hadn’t noticed Merlin reacting to him and Arthur reacting to his master in turn. Suffering a burst of paranoid anxiety, he searched for the King, and found him deep in conversation with Osgifu – the third witch from the Isle of the Blessed.

Relief flooded through him in a powerful wave and a grin bloomed. That was when he saw Morgana heading straight for him with a determined glint in her eye. His grin faltered. His grip tightened around his plate. His nerves flared up as his sister approached on swift feet and then her eyes were glowing, her hand wrapping around his upper arm like a vice and hauling him from the banquet hall before he could utter a single protest. He glanced over his shoulder, prepared to shout for help, but no one seemed to notice he’d vanished from where he’d been.

Not even Deorwynn noticed.

It was as if he’d ceased to exist altogether!

Terror flooded through him and his plate went toppling an instant before Morgana shoved him into a dark alcove some distance from the banquet hall. Arthur wasn’t certain he could reach his crystal fast enough to stop her when her eyes still glowed with blatant power: magic she must have spent years honing to a fine edge. His hands shook as he raised them in surrender.

“Arthur, you don’t need to be afraid of me. I didn’t come here to hurt you. But I can’t promise the same for the King.” Morgana eased away, the golden glow fading, and then her stare softened as she looked him over. She wrapped a strong hand around his wrist. “I’m just grateful you’re still in one piece. That’ll make it easier to get you out of the castle. Come on –”

“Get out?!” Arthur resisted against the hand now pulling him down the corridor with a determination that might have inspired him under different circumstances. His heart thumped in his chest at the thought of being taken from Merlin. Wild emotion raced across his face as he denied Morgana. “I’m not going anywhere with you!”

“Don’t be so stupid –”

“I don’t even know you!”

“Arthur, we don’t have time for this. We need to go now –”

“How do I know I can even trust you?!”

“Because I’m your sister,” Morgana hissed at him. Her grip tightened around his wrist and she gave a heave hard enough to make him stumble. It provided Morgana with enough momentum to keep going, to keep him unbalanced and moving, his feet struggling to keep up with the speed. “Had I known what the King would do, I’d never have let you get within a damned inch of him in the first place. That bruise on your leg is there because of me. Just let me atone for what I’ve done!”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying,” Arthur hissed as he managed to get his feet beneath him at last. He pushed his heels into the stone floor and released a grunt of effort as he pulled away, wrenching free of her grip, forcing Morgana to stop her blaze of determination. She whirled around amid a storm of aggrieved frustration. Magic flooded her gaze. Arthur looked over his shoulder, his frame tensing with anxiety, but there was no one to overhear their discussion. His voice dropped to a whisper even so. “What do you mean I’m bruised because of you? How could you be to blame for the actions of a King?”

“You wouldn’t even be working in the castle were it not for me.” Morgana straightened up, reaching her full height as though she were preparing for something, some reaction from him. It made her seem twice as imposing and almost as regal as Merlin. Her expression hardened. “You’d still be making an honest living down in the town had I never interfered with the household.”

Arthur stared at her, his mind whirring, and then took an immediate step back as realisation dawned within him. His face drained of colour. He slapped the beseeching hand that reached for him away, his heart hammering, snapping, “Don’t touch me. Leave now and I won’t sound the alarm.”

“You have to understand –”

“I understand more than enough.” The frostbitten note in his voice surprised him almost more than it surprised Morgana. She retreated back a step in the face of his surging anger, his mounting fury, his grief and regret at the thought of what she’d done. Arthur took an immediate step forward and then another. “You murdered a man to make room for me here! How could you ever think I’d be fine with that?”

“I didn’t want to,” Morgana croaked as she looked at Arthur, the hardened edge of her expression crumpling, “but I had to give you a fighting chance. I thought getting you close enough would spur you into action. I thought you’d move to take back our damned birthright!”

“Don’t you dare blame me for your own actions.” Arthur shoved Morgana back a step, his anger storming, his face wild with it. “I never once put a knife to your throat and made you infiltrate the castle. I never made you leave that accursed snake for Morris to find. You did that on your own. You made that choice on your own. You never once consulted me. You never even let me know you existed in the first place! Don’t you think I would have been happier just knowing I wasn’t alone? That I had someone to share this damned burden with?!” Arthur shoved Morgana a second time and his vision started blurring, his breathing growing ragged. His whole frame trembled with emotion. “Tristan was right: not all kin _can_ be trusted.”

His hand shot up to grip the crystal around his neck. The magic within jumped to obey his willpower: the alarm bell started knelling, the sound reverberating, its deep note echoing through the castle as Morgana took a step back in blatant shock. An unbearable ugliness twisted her face less than a moment later and she thrust a hand out. A powerful blast of magic hit him hard enough to send Arthur flying, the wind punched out of him as he hit the floor, the stone abrading his back as his momentum seemed to take forever to stop.

Morgana bolted before Arthur could get up, before Merlin and his lethal band of Knights and mages could burst out into the corridor, weapons drawn and dangerous. The end of her raven braid disappeared from view an instant before Merlin noticed Arthur attempting to get up, his back scraped and stinging, his chest struggling to draw in adequate breath until black spots dotted his vision. A single gesture sent the Knights and mages running, chasing after her, and then Merlin dropped to one knee beside Arthur. Merlin pressed a hand against his sternum and Arthur drew in a stuttering breath as familiar magic surged forth and the tightness in his chest eased. Relief coursed through Arthur; his hand clutched the nearest wrist and squeezed tight as he and Merlin shared a glance charged with concern and gratitude in equal measure.  

“What the hell happened out here?”

“I have a sister,” confessed Arthur as the King burst out into the corridor, his deep blue cloak swirling, a retinue of guards and councilmen in his wake. Soredamor and Osgifu weren’t far behind them. The unexpected confession made King Bayard falter, cruel mouth frozen before he could even start shouting at Arthur, before he could start cursing him for disrupting the banquet. Arthur climbed to his feet despite wanting nothing more than to collapse against Merlin and give into the storm of emotions raging inside him. He blinked his vision clear. He ignored the pang in his chest and raised his chin. “Her name is Morgana and she...she is a threat to Camelot and Mercia. Your Majesty, she admitted to killing His Highness’ former manservant with the intention of making a position in the household available for me. But I never knew she existed until a month ago. I don’t even know how _Morgana_ knew we were related when I had to learn the truth from the spirit of a long dead relative in the Crystal Cave.”

“Morgana Le Fay and her nursemaid arrived at the Isle of the Blessed the night Mercia claimed Camelot.” Soredamor tensed as all eyes focused upon her and she tossed that cascade of blood-red hair over her shoulder with one fluid move. A ripple of shock ran through the gathering; the name Le Fay wasn’t often invoked in Camelot after the death of Uther Pendragon. “We raised her on the Isle and she gained the gift of foresight while under our guardianship. Morgana must have seen someone discussing her connection to you. I can think of no other way, no other means of discovery, since neither Osgifu nor I knew of her parentage in the least. We would never have brought her here had we known.” Soredamor dropped to one knee and bowed her head before the King, and Osgifu followed suit immediately, the pair as graceful as queens in their own right. “You have our sincerest apologies and our promise to stop her before she can cause further harm in the future.”

King Bayard stared hard at Arthur, his suspicion growing, and then turned around amid a whirl of his cloak. A sharp command had Soredamor and Osgifu rising, the pair following hurriedly, along with almost all of the council.

The crowd left behind started dispersing: the guards escorted various noblemen and women back to their chambers while the servants began clearing the banquet hall. Lady Hunith welcomed young Mordred beneath her wing, offering to keep him entertained until his mother returned from her meeting with the King, and Ninianne nattered his ear off as Sir Lamorak escorted them away, leaving Arthur alone with Merlin at last.

Arthur, however, didn’t dare embrace Merlin now that the corridor was void of people: it would have risked far too much when a servant could emerge from the banquet hall at any moment. Instead he followed his master as Merlin strode down the corridor, his expression stormy, and his narrow frame tense. Magic pulsed around Merlin. Even King Bayard himself would have been nervous around such a powerful mage going through an emotional upheaval so unpredictable and strong, but Arthur was experienced with facing such a wild display, experienced with giving his master the right amount of space before closing in and arguing with him until Merlin somehow let go, releasing his festering emotions with one strong wave of magic that obliterated mirrors and ornaments yet left Arthur unharmed in the process.

Such moments were rare.

That was when Arthur most desired that aggression and power, desired those callused hands to rough him up, desired that powerful magic to pin him against something unyielding, and desired that tempting and infuriating mouth to claim his with possessive force until he couldn’t help but moan in pleasured pain and arch against him.

Now, however, wasn’t the time to entertain such desire. Merlin was in blatant agony; he’d never recovered from Morris’ premature passing, not even after Arthur explained that he wasn’t to blame in the slightest. But the truth was irrefutable now: Merlin was never the target of that assassination. Morris was never in the wrong place at the wrong time. He’d been the target all along. Arthur, knowing how much Merlin was aching at the thought of Morris’ passing, hurried to catch up with him. He locked the door as soon as the pair of them were concealed within the royal chamber and watched as Merlin began pacing, prowling around the royal chamber like a tiger, his hackles rising.

Merlin was a storm. He was nature incarnate. It both terrified and exhilarated Arthur, who’d seen the might of his power, who’d seen Merlin conjure a storm strong enough to shake the castle and turn the fields to mud without even requiring an enchantment. It awed him that fate wanted them together, that fate wanted Merlin to be with Arthur, that fate thought he of all people deserved Merlin that much. It awed him even more to know that Merlin chose him of his own volition. He couldn’t imagine ever deserving such an immense gift. Still watching, Arthur let him storm for quite a while longer, before stepping in and drawling, “You know, your pacing is making me nervous.”

“I don’t care.”

“I thought it was your job to care?”

Several sparks of magic arced through the air like lightning, almost blinding in their power, and Arthur rolled up his sleeve and looked down at the fine hairs on his arm: each of them had risen as goose bumps raced across his flesh. Shivering, Arthur rolled his sleeve back down and stepped into his path. His heart thumped as those familiar eyes blazed with power, more vibrant than ever: it was as though a new depth to his magic had opened now that he’d had the person responsible for Morris’ death within his clutches. Morgana was gone now; sure to have escaped and left a trail of dead after her, since murder wasn’t beyond her moral compass as her past actions had proven. Morris’ premature death wasn’t yet avenged and Arthur could see how much that pained Merlin even as his master stormed toward him.

“Get out of the way,” Merlin snapped at Arthur, his voice dangerous and low, and his eyes glowing with magic strong enough to make another man recoil. Arthur raised his chin instead and stared at his master as the distance between them closed. He refused to move even as that vibrating power enveloped him. Merlin clenched his jaw, his frame tensing further, but something like the usual man Arthur loved flickered to the surface for an instant. “Arthur, I’m not joking: I can feel the magic slipping out of control and I don’t know whether you’ll remain unharmed when it lashes out this time. I want you to leave and take shelter with Sir Tor, and remain with him until morning, until I summon you back here to me. Take Cabal with you.”

Arthur glanced at the pup, barking like a lunatic in the corner, and frowned for a moment before looking back at Merlin. He saw then how much Merlin struggled to hold the magic at bay, struggled to stop it from lashing out wildly, damaging or destroying all in its path. Sweat beaded on pale skin. Swallowing, realising Merlin needed far more than a bout of shouting, Arthur did the one thing he could think of: he stepped closer, until less than an inch remained between him and his master, and wrapped his hand Carnwennan as gold eyes squeezed shut. Merlin snapped his eyes back open when Arthur slid her free and retreated back a step, smirking, his yet stinging back straightening with determination. Deep surprise flickered across pale features an instant before Arthur shoved him hard enough to send him stumbling, gaping, and his power vibrating even harder.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“It looks like you’ve turned suicidal!”

Merlin tripped over his own cloak and overbalanced when Arthur shoved him a second time. He would have hit the floor like a stone had it not been for a burst of wild magic cushioning his fall. Arthur was upon him in an instant. A shiver ran up his spine as he straddled his master, smirking, confident that he wouldn’t be harmed no matter how much magic Merlin released. Merlin pulsed with power, and then surged up, magic ploughing into Arthur like a ram as Merlin twisted and pinned him down against the floor. The magic wrapped around his wrists and wrenched them up, pinning them to the stone above his head with force enough to make him arch up, a low groan escaping him as Merlin settled between his parted thighs for the briefest exquisite moment. Then his master wrenched himself away, stumbling in his haste to get up from the floor, narrow chest heaving.

“I know I won’t be harmed.” His face heated at the remembered press of Merlin against his front. His manhood ached with want...but Arthur couldn’t think of that. He couldn’t let himself be distracted from his plan to diffuse the storm of magic and emotion brewing within his master, who was now pressed against the fireplace as though even that small distance could protect either of the pair from the magic still pinning Arthur to the stone floor. The same nefarious magic that pushed his thighs even further apart and started undoing the laces of his trousers with a slow and deliberate tug before Merlin managed to get his power under some strained semblance of control. Arthur, however, wasn’t the only one flushed from the antics of that untamed magic: Merlin was scarlet. “Your magic loves me more than I can describe. Do you know how many nights I’ve slept with it wrapped around me like a lover?”

Merlin shook his head in strained desperation as Arthur, finally released from his position on the floor, climbed to his feet with determination and a hand holding up his unlaced trousers. He watched as Arthur tucked his blade under his chin and began the process of lacing up, almost groaning, his aching manhood protesting the renewed confinement after that glimpse of freedom.

“I know you think you can’t control your magic right now,” continued Arthur, his hand wrapping around Carnwennan all over again as he approached his master, “and you’re allowed to feel that way, but your magic knows better than to hurt me or Cabal. It knows better than to hurt the ones you love. But you should let it go before it explodes out with force. Tire yourself out here with me as you would tire me out when training. I can handle whatever you throw at me!”

That vow seemed to snap Merlin out of his desperation.

A wild burst of magic ripped open his chest of weapons and a baselard went soaring through the air to slap into his waiting palm. Merlin threw himself into the unexpected fight with a snarl. Arthur dodged the first slash of steel and then the second before meeting the third with a snarl of his own and pushed against that opposing force. Magic sparked and danced along gleaming steel an instant before Arthur hooked a foot around an ankle and yanked hard. Merlin went toppling, but his magic snared Arthur, their blades skittering across the stone floor as that magic dragged him down with his master, earning several snarled curses as the pair went rolling, battling for dominance as a swell of magic rattled the windowpanes.

Arthur wasn’t sure when he started laughing, cackling, delighting in the clash with Merlin. All he knew was the adrenaline pumping through his system as he defended against blow and blow, offering back his own with equal power, driving Merlin onto his back more than once until a blast of magic hit him in the chest and sent him flying, crashing down upon the large bed some distance away. Arthur almost bounced right back off. The frame of the bed gave with an obscene crash. Arthur scrambled up from the ruined bed and snatched Carnwennan from the floor, his chest heaving, watching his master storm across the chamber with intent. The golden glow was dimmer now, but simmering, still hot enough to burn and Arthur met that stare with delighted relish before Merlin crowded him up against the stone wall. Magic pinned him in place. It ripped Carnwennan from his grasp and tossed it aside with little consideration. It pinned his wrists overhead.

“What I’d give to be across the border right now,” Merlin croaked as Arthur strained against the magic pinning him down. His touch was almost hot enough to sear when Merlin buried his face against his exposed throat. Calmer now, his magic pulsed and vibrated against Arthur, sending the most exquisite ripples across his body, making him groan and arch against his master, desire burning hot within his abdomen. Strong hands fisted his tunic, shaking, and then Merlin was weeping, the storm of his emotions breaking at last. The magic pinning him collapsed in a rush. Arthur stumbled free of the wall and then hauled Merlin into a hug, letting him cling, his arms a comforting band around Merlin as the pair sank to the floor together. His desire faded as Arthur rocked with Merlin. His hand slid up to tangle in raven hair. It was agonising to hear him weeping and wailing, to feel him grieving this way, for Merlin grieved with his whole being.

Merlin grieved still for Morris’ premature and unexpected passing, and now for the lost chance to avenge his murder. Maybe even for the endless boundaries still separating him and Arthur, though it seemed trifling, almost dishonourable to weep for such a thing in comparison to the rest. But Merlin was the kind of man to leave his emotions build and build until he had no choice but to let go, to give into them and collapse in a heap, shaking and weeping, tearing himself apart with the strength of it. Arthur cradled him through it. He cradled him close and rocked him and whispered his comfort until Merlin was an exhausted mess in his embrace. Until there was nothing left to do but heave his master into his arms as a man would his bride or husband and transport him to the ruined bed.

Merlin clung to him even as Arthur laid him down on the soft mattress. His exhausted hands refused to let him slip away, and Arthur overbalanced. He fell atop Merlin with a soft grunt. His master, however, didn’t seem bothered in the least.

“Stay,” Merlin whispered against his ear, his hands clutching, fisting the back of his tunic as Arthur swallowed and shivered in pleasure. His gaze flicked over to the door. It remained locked and stood firm against the world outside. He looked back down at Merlin and swallowed again at the quiet urgency, the soft plea that lingered as Merlin looked up at Arthur, and he found it impossible to refuse.

“Of course,” Arthur whispered in return. He cupped the cheek closest to him and sighed at the smooth texture pressing against his own skin. Merlin bestowed a weak smile upon him. He leaned into his palm and affection swelled within Arthur, softening him as a pleasant morning might soften butter, inspiring Arthur to press a kiss against the pale forehead beneath him. “You don’t have to ask. You never have to ask me to stay. I’m never leaving you.”


	21. Chapter Twenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter is ready, so here it is. 
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think!
> 
> ;)

Morgana Pendragon – as she had come to be known in Camelot – seemed to disappear from existence. Whatever spell she was using, it kept her safe from the measures taken in Camelot and Mercia. Even the mages in Nemeth failed to locate her for King Bayard. It made for an even more volatile King. He was almost rabid when he assigned a personal guard to protect Merlin and keep track of Arthur, who couldn’t even go down to the market for his master without being under close scrutiny – because purchasing a silken scarf for Her Highness of Nemeth on behalf of Merlin was such suspicious behaviour! It was more than frustrating, but he’d soon resigned himself to being under heavier surveillance from the King, which meant that neither of them dared to whisper of their shared future aloud or their promises to each other in the royal chamber.

Not when the guards remained in place outside the door. Not when the use of a spell to prevent sound from breaching the door altogether would just make those stationed guards suspicious enough to summon the King.

His master, however, had means of avoiding detection in some areas. Arthur had written a missive for Robyn and Merlin had slipped from the royal chamber through the window, his actions hidden beneath the dark clouds drifting across the sky, his hands wrapped tight around a makeshift rope fashioned from their combined tunics and bedclothes. Arthur had been left behind to provide the counterbalance. Merlin had winked at him before disappearing from view, eyes sparkling, relishing the chance for some subterfuge. He’d hauled the rope back up as soon as he’d felt the weight disappear, and he’d stowed it away, just in case someone came to visit while Merlin was out gallivanting.

Now, Arthur was still waiting, waiting for the poke of magic to alert him that Merlin was below the window once more. He could hear the guards murmuring, fussing over having to keep an eye on Arthur, who was on good terms with most of them now. It brought a warm smile to his face. At least some people knew he’d never work against Camelot – no matter what happened or who he encountered. Camelot was his first priority, even if he wasn’t the King, even if the future he and Merlin would build together was still nothing but a fanciful wish standing on the merest glimmer of hope.

The thought of that future made him smile as Arthur sat on the floor, just below the window, welcoming the offered affection from Cabal and scratching the pup between the ears. He let himself think about it: a world where Merlin was King, where each law targeting Arthur would be repealed and he could confess the depth of his ardour, where he and Merlin could be together at last. Such a world would give Arthur leave to hold his hand out in the open and kiss him in public. It would be a world where all were equal under the law and he wanted that world so much. He wanted it more than anything.

Arthur let himself wonder what it would be like to have Merlin as a lover, whether he would be rough or gentle during their first night together, whether he would cradle Arthur close in the wake of that passion and hold him until morning. Just the thought of feeling soft skin pressing against his own naked frame made him shiver with want and the thought of a gentle hand carding through his hair at the same time made him ache with need.

An hour or more passed before Arthur felt a tender tendril of magic caressing his jaw, catching his attention at once and urging him up, urging him to fetch the makeshift rope and return to the window before Merlin could be spotted. It wasn’t long at all until Merlin was toppling in through the window, falling on to Arthur, and knocking them both to the floor. His master landed on him with a low grunt and then pressed a hand against Arthur, right over his mouth and lower jaw, muffling the awkward and nervous chuckles that escaped him. Merlin grinned down at him. Neither of them moved for a long moment and just luxuriated in the press of each other, having been denied such closeness since the surveillance grew heavier around Arthur, and Merlin gazed down at him like he couldn’t imagine another place he’d rather be. It awed him to be so loved. It awed him to be the person at whom Merlin gazed with such longing, such tender need.

But Merlin withdrew eventually, pulling his hand away, and then helped Arthur to his feet with a warm burst of controlled magic. He then closed the window, his amusement and longed fading in favour of seriousness. Merlin crossed to the writing desk and selected a new sheaf of parchment. He dipped his quill and began writing, his script spreading across the parchment as Arthur watched closely, amused and irritated beyond measure that he and Merlin had to resort to such tactics from time to time. Arthur stepped closer when he was done and read:

_Robyn jumped at the chance for a quest. Apparently, her boredom knows no bounds now that she doesn’t have a Questing Beast to hunt. Her burlap sack is now packed and ready, and she’ll go at the first hint of dawn. She won’t let you down: Merewald will soon be free of whatever enchantment has ensnared her, if any. But I hope a war won’t tear our lands apart when she learns you aren’t dead – even though we’d deserve it for how you’ve been treated here._

Frowning, Arthur plucked the quill from his grasp and began composing a response that looked embarrassing, his own penmanship an almost illegible scrawl next to that flowing script.

**No, don’t you ever think that. Camelot doesn’t deserve something so horrible. I’m sorry, but the King is a fear-monger, and he has spent these long years inflaming and encouraging and mobilising the people against me for something I couldn’t control. The people of Camelot were grieving when Bayard became King, and he took advantage of them as soon as he could because he carried a vendetta against me and all those who bear the name Pendragon. He stoked the flames of fear and anger, letting them develop into a towering inferno instead of dowsing them. However, those dismal attitudes of the people – common and noble alike – are changing at last. Small changes are better than nothing, you know, Sire. Merewald will see that. Surely, her first course of action would be to ascertain whether I’m within reach before declaring open war, and send a missive of some sort to me while doing so?**

Surprise flicked across pale features as Merlin looked up and Arthur looked away, his face flaming. He was aware he’d gotten a little carried away, a little over excited when penning the response...but he hadn’t rambled much. Merlin started writing again:

_You’ll make a fine King Consort one day, Arthur._

**Shut up** , Arthur wrote in reply, blushing even harder, though he couldn’t help the burst of happiness that exploded within him and spread through his whole frame at receiving such a compliment. He paused for a moment and then continued. **I’m worried about Merewald. Do you think she’ll like me? Do you think she’ll even want to know me now that I’ve been a peasant for so long?**

_Arthur, I know you’re worried...but you don’t need to be. I doubt she’d cast you aside for having been raised as you were – not when her brother is the reason it happened in the first place. Just remember what Tristan said: Merewald had to be ensorcelled to be kept from you. Take heart in that._

**How did you become so wise?**

_Reflection is a powerful weapon and I’ve been trained to wield weapons since birth._

**When will you be trained to walk on your knees then?**

Merlin startled and looked up, eyes sparkling, and mouth curling in a slow smile that sent his pulse racing. His master plucked the quill from his grasp and wrote a response:

_I don’t know, but I think I’d rather see you walk on yours. I’ve been obsessed with your mouth from the beginning, you tease. Please don’t bite your lip like that: you’re just making it look flushed and swollen now...and such duties are mine alone._

**First of all....how dare you? I’m not the one who spends half the time parading around naked and driving a manservant mad with want. Not that I’m saying you drive me mad with want – shut up, you cabbage. Stop laughing at me!**

Merlin then started choking on his laughter, his hand pressing hard over his own mouth and lower jaw, his eyes sparkling even through a veil of tears that swelled and threatened to cascade down his face. Arthur fought the enormous and idiotic grin that threatened to spread across his own face...but he couldn’t remain strong, he couldn’t keep fighting the overpowering urge as Merlin braced a hand against the writing desk to keep himself on his feet as he shuddered through yet another wave of choked laughter.

His master snatched the quill from him when he managed to get control of himself and then composed his reply.

_Cabbage? Is that the best you can do? I’m disappointed. Come back to me when you can manage a better insult. Anyway, I meant what I said: you don’t need to be concerned right now, not about your ghost of a relationship with Merewald. You have years to get to know her._

**I suppose you’re right. Don’t get smug; it had to happen sometime. What else did Robyn say? Is she prepared for the coming winter? She won’t reach Cornwall before the snow hits.**

_She’ll be fine. Robyn is an experienced hunter and woodsman. She also has magic to help her, you know, which gives her an even greater advantage. She won’t reach Cornwall before the winter, but you can bet she’ll make good time regardless and then she’ll do her best to ease herself into the castle somehow before getting close enough to end the enchantment however she needs to. I have complete faith her abilities. You should too._

**I do have faith in her, but I can’t help fretting; I can’t just turn it off. Life would be so much easier had I the power to do that. Had I the power to detach from those troublesome sentiments. I don’t know how you can think I’ll be a fine King Consort when nerves get the best of me so often.** Arthur paused for a moment and chewed his lip, his throat constricting, before putting quill back to parchment and continuing, daring to open up a little more despite the nervous thumping in his chest and the churning of his stomach as he admitted to his weaknesses. **I feel incompetent most of the time. The one thing I can do well is ride a horse and I don’t think such a thing would be considered as admirable as being a great public speaker, as being able to interact with nobles without embarrassing you and Camelot or even keeping a temper under strict control. You know how much I struggle with that. I don’t want to spark a feud or a war because I insulted the wrong person in a fit of pique.**

_Firstly, you will be a great public speaker. Don’t ever let yourself be convinced otherwise – not even when the voice telling you so is your own. I can see the depth of your immense potential right now, right here on this parchment in front of me. What you lack is confidence. Secondly, you won’t embarrass me. You’ve learned so much since you started working for me and you’ll just keep learning as the months and years pass. Thirdly, even the most seasoned monarchs have trouble reining in their anger from time to time. I’ve met more than a few of them over these long years. You don’t need to concern yourself with this now, Arthur; just let yourself grow as you’ve been growing since you came to work here and you’ll be more than fine. You’ll be wonderful. And remember: you won’t be facing that distant future alone. You’ll have me to guide you through the transition and you’ll have the people that love you to support you through it – people like Gwen and Sir Tor, Mother and Ninianne. None of us would let you face this on your own._

Merlin burned the parchment as soon as soon as that important discussion came to a close.

That was how he and Merlin communicated in the royal chamber as the weeks went by, as the beginning of autumn faded into winter, leaving the castle frostbitten but for the roaring fires in various sections of the castle. Arthur hated leaving the royal chamber in winter: his mended arm and other various mended bones often seized or burned with pain and it never mattered how much clothes he piled on. He was never warm enough to ease the pain. He just had to grin and bear it. But that was easier said than done when in the presence of the King, who took a malicious pleasure in seeing him stiff and in agony, who smirked because he knew he was to blame for most of those once broken bones. Merlin often took Arthur aside and demanded to know what was wrong, because he hadn’t had such a problem the previous year, but Arthur couldn’t do it. The confession so often burned on the tip of his tongue and yet never toppled into the open. It never escaped even when the pain had him gripping the nearest surface as though it could lend him strength to keep going, to keep moving, to keep ignoring the pain stiffening his collar, his forearm and wrists and hands, his ankles and feet. But he never cried over it. There wasn’t a point. Weeping would accomplish nothing, but give the man that abused him so much more satisfaction and Arthur refused to let that happen.

Now, just past midwinter, Arthur found himself soaking in the bathtub, his head resting back against a soft cloth as he let the intense heat soften his agonised bones and stiff muscles. Merlin – having pulled his favourite chair over – sat beside him and read aloud from one of his numerous tomes. His voice was soft and soothing, and one hand carded through hair dampened from the steam. Arthur drifted in and out of sleep, drowsiness an unfortunate result from the combination of that voice and the steaming water, but it felt too good to ask him to stop. He continued to soak until the water began cooling, and then Merlin helped him out of the bathtub, holding him up with firm hands and magic as his still aching ankles threatened to give out.

Arthur wasn’t too proud to receive help reaching the antechamber, not after such a long and tiring day, not after spending so much time outside in the snow, driven out on a mission that ended up being nothing but a wild goose chase – a scheme to torment him even further. He could still remember the smug and satisfied smirk the King wore and the hard glint in his eye when Arthur hobbled into the throne room and refrained from collapsing in a heap through sheer force of will. Merlin had been outraged and demanded to know what the King thought he was doing, encouraging a man in obvious pain to go out into the frostbitten winter, but Arthur had just given his master a look and raised his chin before looking straight at King Bayard and reporting that there weren’t a single pup loose from the kennels. He’d cursed himself for a fool for not pausing long enough to think the comment through – all he’d known was that the King had mentioned a young pup being misplaced and Arthur had gone out into the snow at once.

Arthur had been so stupid and now he was suffering, almost incoherent with weariness and remembered pain as Merlin helped him settle into bed. He looked up at his master, his gaze heavy, and blinked in surprise when Merlin summoned a familiar balm from the royal chamber, uncorking it in one quick motion. He often used the same balm to massage the stiffness from Merlin’s frame after a hard bout of training, or even after a tourney, his master dissolving into a mellow puddle on the bed as Arthur massaged him as best as he could.

“You don’t have to do this. I can manage.”

“I know,” Merlin said gently, his forehead crinkling with no small amount of concern and sorrow, “but I want to help you feel better, Arthur, so much better. No one should have to be in pain like this. I just wish I could do something more.” Merlin settled down on the edge of the bed and searched his face for a long moment. He sniffled and then turned his face away, leaving Arthur feeling as though a horse had kicked him in the chest. He hated seeing Merlin so distraught. “Are you ever going to tell me what happened to you?”

“I don’t know,” mumbled Arthur, swallowing, his heart aching with each beat. Merlin looked at him once more. A lump formed in his throat. “I wanted to tell you. I still do, but the words keep getting stuck and I just can’t.” He stopped and drew in a shaking breath. He hadn’t realised his voice had risen until it grew shrill and uncomfortable to hear, shrill enough to make Merlin wince and rub the shell of his ear, shrill enough to make Arthur flush with mortification and look away, swallowing once more. “Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologise.” The soft note in his master’s voice summoned his attention back. He stared at Merlin...at the soft despair written upon the sharp angles he’d come to know so well. Angles he’d come to know better than his own face. Merlin reached for his hand and gathered it close before pouring some of the balm into his own palm and warming it. His gentle hands began messaging, earning a vulnerable whimper as the pain flared for a moment. Then the pain started softening, melting into something sweeter, and those clever fingers lent the right amount of strength and used the perfect amount of pressure. Arthur found he couldn’t take his eyes off him. “Arthur, you are more than entitled to be unable to tell me what happened. How you’re feeling is valid. Your difficulties are valid. Don’t ever think that I’d force something like this out of you when you aren’t ready, but I hope you’ll trust me that much one day.”

“I do trust you...but I also know you better than I know myself. I know you’d never let it go, you’d never pause long enough to consider what you’re doing, and you’d win with such ease that the other wouldn’t even stand a chance. But it wouldn’t end well for you at all.”

Suspicion flickered across familiar features and Merlin tilted his head slowly, his hands pausing, his eyes narrowing, and saying, “Was it someone I’d know enough to recognise when I saw them or heard their name?”

“Yes.” Arthur swallowed and moistened his lips with the sparse saliva that remained in his mouth. His mouth felt like a desert as Merlin studied him. Studied his facial reactions to the question and whatever nervous ticks accompanied his answer. “You know them well.”

“Then it must be someone close to me.” Merlin frowned and his hands continued massaging, adding just a hint more pressure. It was enough to earn a faint moan from Arthur, his eyes drifting closed as a spark of pleasure flickered through him. “Was it one of the Knights?”

“No.” Arthur swallowed a second moan and luxuriated in the warm pressure that continued moving, continued travelling up to encompass first his wrist and then his forearm after that. “Don’t be stupid. Sir Tor would have torn them apart had he learned one of them wasn’t being honourable...and you...you know how he feels about me. He wouldn’t have let them hurt me.”

“One of the mages?”

Arthur released a burst of tired and strained laughter, saying, “A mage would be too afraid of incurring your wrath to do something, even back when none of them liked me much. Do we have to do this now? Can’t we just concentrate on this stolen moment? You know how few we get now.”

His voice dropped to something softer than a whisper, his eyes drifting open so Arthur could plead in silence with his master, who stared at him for a long moment before nodding at last. A wave of relief rippled through Arthur, and then the pair shared a strained smile that reminded Arthur so much of those months before he’d given in. Before he’d let himself touch and be touched with such tenderness. Before he’d let himself love and be loved in returned. His heart ached within his chest at the thought of those agonizing months.

Neither of them spoke as Merlin continued massaging up, up, up past his once broken forearm and over his upper arm until Merlin reached his shoulder, moving to straddle him when the angle grew far too awkward and uncomfortable. Arthur couldn’t stop staring, his eyes heavy, his face flushing with pleasure and so much desire as Merlin settled over him with a soft sigh. His manhood twitched and Merlin looked down and then away, biting his lip, his face flaming at the knowledge that he affected Arthur so much. It was a challenge to keep his hands away, to refrain from gripping, squeezing those narrow but strong hips as Merlin leaned forward and brought those hands back to his shoulder. Arthur choked out a whimper as his manhood hardened between those strong, muscled thighs that often featured in his better dreams.

The soft fabric of his master’s trousers brushed against his scrotum.

“One day,” Arthur whispered hoarsely, his frame almost boneless beneath his master, but for the roaring fire of desire blazing in the pit of his stomach and the arousal that strained now against the thick padding of his belly, and the twitching of hands that wanted so much to reach out and grab. Sweat broke out on his skin. He forced his eyes closed as that familiar promise escaped him over and over, growing more hot and feverish and desperate with each passing moment. Something shattered within him to hear the same promise whispered back with equal fervour and then he was weeping, not loud and hard and ugly, but slow and silent and despairing, the tears sliding down his face to slip into his ears the result of overwhelming emotion and exhaustion.

It wasn’t long until his other arm and hand were treated to the same tender and exquisite treatment before Merlin returned his attention to his shoulders.

Soon Arthur arched up, choking back a cry, his nipple hard and aching where a callused fingertip scraped against it in passing. Merlin croaked an apology, his hands freezing in blatant surprise as Arthur tightened like a bow, his manhood pulsing again and again as thick ribbons of his seed painted his abdomen. Then Arthur lay panting, sprawled across the bed as Merlin scrambled away, hands shaking and face turning a whiter shade of pale. Merlin wrenched open the door, his eyes glowing, waiting on tenterhooks for the outer door to burst open and the guards to spill into the royal chamber, determined to arrest them both. But no one came. No one burst through the door to arrest them. Merlin shut the door and turned back to look at Arthur, who stared at his master, chest heaving, his skin glistening with balm and sweat in various places and flushed with ecstasy.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin whispered as he returned to the bed and leaned over Arthur, his hands seeming almost cold as Merlin cradled his steaming face. His voice quivered. Arthur wrapped a hand around one slender wrist and gave a squeeze as Merlin continued whispering, continued attempting to reassure him that this had never been his intention at all. A shaking breath ghosted across his skin and earned another moan from Arthur, his skin more sensitive than usual after reaching the height of his pleasure. He was shaking now and so weary, his limbs loose and pliant and the pain a distant memory; he’d never felt something as powerful as that blaze of fire that swept through him when Merlin touched his nipple without meaning to. “I’m so sorry, Arthur; I never meant to make you peak. I never thought you’d react like this. We’re so fortunate none of them heard you.”

A tired and somewhat hysterical laugh escaped Arthur. He didn’t need to be told how fortunate he and Merlin were that no one had heard his muffled cry, that no one had heard him moaning, or the faint creak of the bed as he arched in pleasure. But if this was a taste of how it would be when Merlin became his lover at last...then the future seemed so much brighter, and so much more exquisite than he could have imagined.

The future couldn’t come fast enough.


	22. Chapter Twenty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter for you folks.
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think.

Arthur and Merlin avoided touching each other as the winter progressed and the flurries of snow grew heavier, thicker, colder, making of Camelot a sea of the purest white that glowed at night and sparkled during the day. It was a beautiful sight. Arthur looked down upon the grounds he should have inherited from atop the battlements. He clutched his new fur-lined coat closer, relishing the recent gift from his master, who’d been out hunting when the wolves attacked him. He’d been forced to defend himself. His blade had claimed one wolf and his magic had claimed two others in one fell sweep; the burst of power had frightened the rest of the pack enough to send them scattering, snow kicking up in their wake.

He loved his new coat. It was made from exquisite red leather and lined with white fur that Sir Tor said made him look beautiful. More beautiful than usual or so the man claimed. Just hearing the compliment in the armoury, the one polishing a shield and the other donning his armour, had been enough to make his face burn with embarrassment even as a broad smile bloomed into being, though he’d been tempted to remind his friend that men were supposed to be handsome. Sir Tor had ruffled his hair before slipping out to begin a demonstration for the prospective squires in the banquet hall.

Arthur wasn’t convinced that he was as attractive as Merlin and Sir Tor seemed to think he was – not when he couldn’t help but notice the dark shadows smeared beneath the eyes Merlin claimed to love so ardently, and the way his mouth curled down in misery, the enforced separation between himself and Merlin fuelling that sense of heartbreak. He couldn’t help but notice how he could pinch his stomach with too much ease and highlight the extra padding, the weight that never left him no matter how active he’d been when working over the years. No matter often he’d run through the castle and across the grounds and through the Darkling Wood since he’d started working for Merlin. It made him feel more than inadequate whenever Arthur let himself dwell on having been naked in front of Merlin in the past...on thinking of being naked in front of Merlin in the future.

Growing up, hearing someone call him fat wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. It was just one of a thousand cruel insults he’d heard from Jeffrey, each one punctuated with mocking laughter as he and the others backed him into a corner, a shove becoming a scuffle as Arthur remembered what his brother taught him about defending himself and fought back as hard as he could. But he’d been overpowered each time. He’d been left to limp home with a bruised and bloodied hand braced against various surfaces to keep him upright. Fortunately, nothing had ever been broken when he’d been bullied as a boy, but he would often be bruised until he was black and blue and purple in more places than he’d ever dared to count and Tom would send Gwen running up to the castle to fetch Gaius. The physician would fuss over him for more than an hour, but he wouldn’t treat him like someone made of glass – like a pampered princess. Like a touch too rough would shatter him into a million pieces. He’d treat him like he’d treat anyone else: with gentle and efficient care while raising a stern eyebrow, quelling arguments with ease as he berated Arthur for not running home as soon as he spotted trouble coming his way, telling him that strategic retreat wasn’t something to be ashamed of.

Arthur shook his head to dislodge those painful recollections and the associated concerns about his appearance. He turned away, abandoning the beautiful view, and clutched his coat even closer; it was the warmest and softest coat he’d ever owned and it felt so wonderful against his sensitive skin. Skin that Merlin often stared at when he thought Arthur wasn’t looking, when he thought Arthur wasn’t aware of how much Merlin wanted to back him up against the nearest wall and run hands over him until he was hard and aching, desperate to reach his peak for the second time that winter. But Merlin never dared to come near him after that first exquisite time in the antechamber. He never wrote or said a single thing that could be considered suggestive. But at night...at night Arthur could hear Merlin moaning, could hear the rustle of bedclothes and faint slick noises that made him hide his face in his pillow, cheeks flaming, heart racing, his manhood hard and aching where it pressed against the sheets. Too afraid the guards stationed outside would hear and come to the incorrect conclusion that he and Merlin were making love with each other, Arthur never dared to rock against the mattress. Nor did he dare to slip a hand between his thighs and stroke himself to completion.

Those nights were some of the hardest he’d lived through.

The urge to open the door, cross the royal chamber, and slip into the bed with Merlin was staggering, almost more immense than he could handle. Now, striding down yet another endless corridor, Arthur wondered how Merlin would have reacted had he done that. He might have thrown him out of the bed...but Merlin might also have chosen to let Arthur get closer, close enough to almost touch that expanse of flushed skin dampened with sweat as Merlin denied himself nothing, bringing himself to the precipice separating him from that sea of ecstasy, leaping over the edge with a low groan that would just inspire Arthur to kiss him senseless. The thought of watching Merlin reach his peak brought a smile to his mouth despite the constant heartache throbbing in his chest.

“How wonderful to see you smiling,” mused Lady Hunith as she materialised out of thin air, making him jump, earning a soft laugh from her as she gestured to one of the tapestries behind him to explain her sudden appearance. Lady Hunith slipped her hand around his elbow, her touch warm and comforting, squeezing just so. “I feel as though we haven’t spoken in forever, Arthur; you must come back with me and visit for a while. It’ll do you some good.”

Arthur, his face flaming at having been caught in the middle of thinking about his master, offered no argument as Lady Hunith escorted him through the castle. The guards keeping an eye on him followed close behind. Honestly, when he wasn’t being treated like a threat to the King, Arthur liked visiting Lady Hunith and her family, though he thought he’d seen Sir Lamorak and Ninianne running around in the snow, throwing snowballs at each other. He’d been tempted to go down and join them. However, such a thing would have attracted attention from the King, and Arthur wasn’t selfish enough to ruin their afternoon just because he wanted to have some fun with them.

“How are you feeling,” she asked after closing the door, the action distancing them somewhat from the guards now standing outside like uncertain sheep, having shot Arthur a pair of apologetic glances. “You haven’t looked well in a while. Neither of you have. Did the two of you have a fight?”

“No,” answered Arthur, making sure to keep his voice to almost less than a murmur to ensure the guards outside didn’t overhear. He sat when she ordered him to without ever uttering a word and watched her fetch a carafe of wine as he unbuttoned his coat – the fireplace was dancing with scarlet flames. He shrugged the coat from his shoulders and let it slid down to pool behind him. Lady Hunith carried the carafe of wine and a pair of goblets over to the chairs nestled near the fireplace and poured him one. Arthur accepted it with a faint smile. “Don’t worry; we haven’t been fighting at all. His Highness just wanted some space.”

“I never liked hearing him addressed that way,” Lady Hunith grumbled over her goblet. She took a sip and then another, her expression easing at the burst of flavour. “It almost makes me wish we were still in Ealdor.”

Arthur looked up, blinking in surprise and murmuring, “Then what made you come here? I can’t imagine it was for a peaceful life.”

“Merlin is the one remaining thing tethering Estienne to his brother; Estienne would have taken him with or without me as soon as he was born. I wasn’t going to just let him take Merlin away.” Lady Hunith offered a strained smile. Her voice softened and she cast a brief glance at the locked door across the chamber. “Can’t you imagine the sort of man he’d become without me to act as a counterpoint to the King?”

Arthur looked down at his wine and suppressed a shudder, his hand tightening around the goblet in his grasp, his knuckles whitening until an ache flared across them. The thought of Merlin being at all like the King turned his stomach. He swallowed reflexively, an acidic tang lingering at the back of his throat as Arthur shoved the thought of two cruel men away, shoved it down into a chest at the back of his head and sealed it shut before it could escape and take on a life of its own. He looked up and managed a smile when Lady Hunith reached across and gave his wrist a comforting squeeze – enough to make him feel like he wasn’t alone in his fears.

“I know,” Lady Hunith continued gently, “I don’t like thinking about it either, but we no longer need to: I insisted on coming with Merlin and the rest is water under the bridge now, Arthur.”

“Does it happen so easily,” whispered Arthur, his smile falling, his heart jumping into his throat and refusing to move even an inch – no matter how often he swallowed. Her face twisted with confusion before Arthur specified his question. “Do people move on from their first love just like that?”

“Balinor was going to abandon me and our son – not that he knew Merlin existed then. I hadn’t managed to tell him what I suspected. I loved him more than anything, but I would never have done what he did. I would never have left him behind.” Her voice was blunt enough to startle him into taking a sip of wine. “I’m not sure what woke him. All I know was that he jolted me awake as he scrambled out of bed to pull on his clothes. Balinor never even paused long enough to kiss me before he fled into the night.”

“I’m sorry,” breathed Arthur, his hand tightening even further around his goblet. He almost inhaled the next mouthful of wine and the next. He dared not imagine how he’d feel were he and Merlin in a similar situation. He couldn’t even handle the enforced distance between them now, and just the thought of land stretching on and on between them was unbearable...and the thought of being abandoned in the middle of the night... Arthur couldn’t suppress the next shudder that rippled through him then. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that. It must have been awful. What did you do then?”

“I went after him! What else could I do?” Lady Hunith sipped her wine and looked into the fireplace. Something distant flickered in her gaze. “I went after him. If Martin hadn’t been out to check on his damned cow, I wouldn’t be alive now, and Merlin would never have been born. Martin saw Balinor running away, and saw me emerge from the house a scarce few moments later, and he pointed me in the right direction – which I would have guessed anyway – and then accompanied me. He wasn’t one to let a woman run off into the forest at night alone. He was one of the best fellows I’d ever known. Martin was the one that heard the horse and wrenched me back before I could burst into the clearing that Balinor had run out into. He was the one that crushed me against the nearest tree and used his hand to gag me a moment before a man started speaking. His voice was...colder than ice...cold enough to burn. I’ve heard nothing like it since.”

Her gaze slid over to him.

Arthur drained the rest of his wine with a long gulp, his apple bobbing; she didn’t have to tell him who it was. He’d known. Afraid that magic would flood back into his own territory, his father had slaughtered countless people with magic on the borderlands of lands like Essetir, culling them like sickened livestock...but with far less kindness.

“I would never have sent that letter had Balinor escaped. I would’ve let him keep going, even though it would’ve killed me to see him go, and I’d have raised Merlin as he would have been raised had Balinor never had to flee: the son of a common man and his wife.”

“Why? Why wouldn’t Balinor have told the King about His Highness himself?”

“Balinor and Estienne loved each other, Arthur, but that doesn’t mean he was welcome in Mercia. Estienne didn’t become King of Mercia until a week or so before Balinor was killed and it was months before he ever came to Ealdor looking for us. I couldn’t afford to send the swiftest messengers and so it took weeks for word to reach Estienne and weeks more for him to find us. But as I was saying, Balinor was the bastard son of Dragonlord and a Queen even more cruel than the King is now, and he wasn’t afraid to show his disgust despite the danger, but Estienne pleaded for him to be banished instead of executed and it became so at his pleading – their mother saving herself from losing a legitimate heir as well as an illegitimate one in the process. Balinor wasn’t planning on going back when Estienne became King; sending that letter was a mistake I made and you...you paid the price for that mistake. I just thought he deserved to know. I’m sorry, Arthur.”

“Hey, don’t do that. I can’t imagine His Highness would be safe at all were our positions reversed and I wouldn’t want that in the least. He is much better off in a world like this one – a world where he has a chance to make things better in the future.”

“You’re a good man.” Lady Hunith raised the carafe in question and Arthur leaned forward to let her refill his goblet. He settled back and luxuriated in the blissful heat exuding from the fireplace. It threatened to make him moan as the aches in his feet and ankles eased. He took a sip of his wine to help swallow the urge. “I see compliments embarrass you. You shouldn’t let them: you _are_ a good man and I won’t hear a word otherwise.”

Arthur looked up, his face flaming, too mortified to tell her it wasn’t the compliment that embarrassed him in the first place. He took a deeper mouthful of his wine. The previous goblet of wine still sat warm in his stomach and he could feel that heat travelling up, up, up the length of his neck to fan the flames in his face. He swallowed a third mouthful. Arthur smiled at Lady Hunith and felt like he’d struck diamond in the mines when the woman beamed in return – not that striking diamond was that difficult with her, but it pleased him even so. He liked knowing he could make a good impression with those who mattered so much to Merlin. He liked knowing he had some hope of earning her blessing one day, when he and Merlin could join at last in matrimony, and start the rest of their lives together. He liked knowing he might be welcomed even further into the fold.

“So...do you want to talk about it?”

“About what?”

“Why Merlin needed space.”

“I have nothing to say,” muttered Arthur, hastening to finish his second goblet of wine. He squirmed in his chair, his stomach flaring with a sharp heat that had nothing to do with the wine he’d imbibed. He could still feel the balm on his skin whenever Arthur dared to let himself slow, dared to slip back into that memory, and could still feel that exquisite weight on his lap. He could still feel those hips flush against his palms. He could still feel the brush of fabric between his thighs...and the rough and unexpected scrape of a callused finger. Grabbing his coat from the chair, Arthur sucked his lip between his teeth and rose quickly, hastening to pardon himself from her company, almost fleeing the chamber before his manhood could do more than twitch in remembered interest.

Just thinking of that evening with Merlin was enough to make his manhood throb and ache with want and so much need. Were he at all daring, he’d attempt to give the guards tailing him the slip and disappear into some unused chamber, let his hand slide down to undo his laces and rub until he trembled with how much he needed Merlin to touch him right there. How much he needed Merlin inside him. But he did none of that. Instead he forced himself to think about the King; it was enough to kill even the brightest flame of arousal and send him into a well of hopelessness and despair. It was safer to feel hopeless than to desire his master, safer to expect nothing from him than hope that Merlin might touch him again – even in innocence. Merlin never even read to him or carded a hand through his hair lately, as though even that much would be enough to have Arthur arching in ecstasy, head thrown back and mouth twisting around a hoarse cry.

Arthur missed those innocent moments spent together more than anything, missed the warm and private smiles Merlin would send his way. He missed the moments when Merlin would wind around him from behind and squeeze him close like a lover might.

He should never have let Merlin massage him. He’d known he was sensitive and he’d known Merlin could reduce him to little more than a puddle of bliss with too much ease. It wasn’t a surprise that his master made him peak so soon when he mulled it over – not when taking the poignant glances and simmering desire and the long months of teasing into consideration. He’d been primed for pleasure months ago, and all it had taken were the right circumstances to make him succumb: his master on his lap; the press and slide of those skilled hands upon his bare skin as some part of him imagined those hands pressing and sliding elsewhere; the brush of material against his scrotum. Not to mention their fervent promises of being together one day, of Merlin taking him to bed one day, of giving in to the desires coursing through them one day, of their bodies joining in a sinuous give and take that often haunted his dreams when he wasn’t suffering nightmares.

Now, having at last reached the royal chamber, Arthur pressed back against the locked door and spent a moment watching his master sleep, curled up in his favourite chair in front of the fire. He looked sweet and innocent with all that ruffled raven hair, the stress of being Prince of Camelot and Mercia having melted away, a faint smile dancing across the familiar curve of his mouth where it had been thinned and twisted with stress when wakeful.

Merlin was too beautiful to describe.

Next to his master, Arthur wasn’t certain how someone could find him attractive in the least. He wasn’t certain how Sir Tor could look at him and see someone he’d want to marry, someone he’d want to take to bed each night and wake up next to each morning, not when Sir Tor used to do that with a man like Merlin. He looked down at himself. His loose tunic concealed most of his padding, draping across him in a deceiving manner, and making him seem trimmer than he was. He might have considered it a factor but for the knowledge that Merlin preferred to see him wearing a tunic as white as snow, allowing his frame to cast a silhouette against the material whenever firelight or sunlight bathed him in its entrancing glow; such a tunic would just showcase his thickness. His stomach twisted at the thought and his hand clenched in the white fabric draped across his middle.

Arthur glanced at his master, his heart thumping, his stomach churning, his skin breaking out in a cold sweat. He crossed the room in a few quick strides and slipped into the antechamber, the barrel of his chest heaving, the thought of Merlin being attracted to the thickness of his middle making his insides squirm around in nauseating circles. Surely, there were other things that had to attract him?

Arthur stripped down to just the crystal and ran a critical eye over his own frame. His chest bore a fine dusting of hair, neither too few nor too many, and the flaxen hue served to highlight the faint rose of nipples Merlin often stared at when the cold turned them hard and aching, prominent against the material of his tunics. His collarbones weren’t terrible to look at: he had some definition there. His arms and legs were strong, of course, but that wasn’t a surprise after several long years of hard labour and then the martial training under his master on top of it. His manhood wasn’t something to complain about – he’d overheard enough in the tavern to know that his was thicker than average when aroused. He was even thicker than Merlin and just a fraction shorter, flushed red where Merlin became a faint purple that almost looked painful.

He’d seen Merlin aroused once or twice while bathing his master, had blushed and looked away, but the estimated measurements had whirred through his head regardless: he’d calculated an approximate length and girth and even the arc as it curved towards his stomach. Arthur still wasn’t certain why; he didn’t need to know and yet knowing how far his mouth would have to stretch to accommodate Merlin made him shiver, made his manhood twitch and harden even further as he bit back a whimper. Several beads of familiar fluid slid down his length.  He still wasn’t accustomed to how much Merlin – or even just thinking about Merlin – affected him down there whenever Arthur let himself think about having Merlin as a lover.

Chest heaving, Arthur crawled onto his bed and almost moaned as his arousal brushed against the soft fur of his coat in passing, sending a vine of pleasure to curl around the base of his spine. His toes curled. His hand fisted the bedclothes. Instinct almost sent his broad hips rocking, and it became a test of will to remain still and silent against that exquisite fur. Arthur buried his face in the nearest pillow, sweat breaking out upon his brow at the effort it took to remain motionless. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that Merlin could indulge whenever he wanted and yet not Arthur, whose actions were scrutinised with extra vigour, whose pleasures were anathema to the King, whose love meant certain death for him and definite suffering for Merlin. He was almost certain King Bayard would find masturbating in the antechamber reason enough to have him cast in iron or worse. The margin for error was so small that he wasn’t willing to risk it now, wasn’t willing to rock against that soft fur, wasn’t willing to let the pleasure wind around him and soak through him until he peaked with an arch of his spine and a hoarse shout.

Arthur remained still and silent for what seemed like an eternity, his blood cooling and his arousal ebbing, his frame relaxing into the soft fur still trapped between him and the mattress. He wasn’t certain how long he sprawled across the bed. He wasn’t certain how long he avoided thinking of his master, but Arthur felt himself tensing all over again when a soft knock came at the door, Merlin murmuring, “Can we talk? Please?”

Arthur rose from the bed and crossed the antechamber, slipping his tunic over his head as he did so; the material slipped down to keep him just about modest. The open laces gaped across his chest. He pulled open the door, his expression almost daring, but his expression softened when he saw how breakable and uncertain his master seemed. Arthur took one step back and then another, retreating further into the antechamber, his eyes remaining fastened upon Merlin as he slipped inside and closed the door. His knees hit the edge of the bed. He sat down as Merlin looked him over, that distraught and forbidden gaze still lingering, caressing the skin bared as the hem of his tunic rode up a few inches. Arthur bit his lip and pulled the hem down when Merlin slid down the length of the door, settling on the stone floor, avoiding looking at Arthur now – a sure sign that something was bothering Merlin.

The sight was disconcerting.

“I had a dream about you.” The sheer amount of emotion underscoring the admission made Arthur tense up even further, his spine aching, the tendons in his hands protesting as he gripped the hem of his tunic even tighter. Merlin fiddled with his sleeves. “I dreamt you...you got tired of waiting for me. I wouldn’t blame you.”

Uncomprehending, Arthur stared at his master, stared until Merlin looked at him at last and a tear slid free of dark lashes. It slid down the sharp angles of his face and disappeared beneath his jaw, and then another followed and another, pale features crumpling as Merlin started babbling, babbling about the arguments that took place in his dreamscape and the cold shoulder he’d given his master. He babbled about Arthur growing so tired of waiting, so tired of hoping, so tired of dreaming of a future that just wasn’t coming fast enough that he’d walked out of the castle and then out of his life. Merlin buried his face in hands that shook something fierce.

Arthur rose from the bed as a harsh sob escaped his master and crossed the antechamber. He dropped to his knees in front of Merlin.

“Look at me.” Arthur captured his wrists and pulled them away, tugged them until Merlin followed the order, looking at him through a veil of tears. His heart cleaved in two at the sight. He released those wrists and cupped his face instead. Arthur wiped several tears away, speaking urgently, his voice soft and firm where it would have quivered and stammered under normal circumstances. “I’ve said before that I’m never leaving you and I meant it. I will never give up on our future together. You’re stuck with me. Do you understand that? You’re stuck with me until you don’t want me around anymore and even then I’ll argue until I’m hoarse. Until I fall down with exhaustion!”

“Arthur –”

“I know I can offer you nothing,” Arthur continued quickly, his torn heart thumping in his chest and his lungs struggling to draw in adequate breath as the words left him in a rush. “I know I have no land or money or armies to strength the border, nothing worth noting, nothing that could make our marriage advantageous in the eyes of Camelot and Mercia. I know all that...but the one thing I can offer is this.” Arthur relinquished one cheek and wrapped a gentle hand around the wrist closest to him. He pulled it closer, pressed it right over his heart and swallowed anxiously, eyes watering as Merlin stared first at where his hand remained crushed against his heaving chest and then up into his face. His voice cracked with emotion. “I know it isn’t much. I know that it’ll never be good enough...but it belongs to you. It will belong to you for as long as I breathe.”

Merlin breathed his name as another man might have invoked a prayer, and then scrambled up and lunged at Arthur, earning a squeak and a muffled curse as the momentum toppled them over, sending them sprawling across the stone floor. A hand prevented his head from thumping against the stone. Trapped between Merlin and the floor, Arthur flushed as he realised his tunic had ridden up to his stomach and left him bare where Merlin pressed against him like a lover, one hand braced against the stone beside his head. His master, however, just buried his face against his neck and inhaled deeply, as though he’d felt as deprived since midwinter as Arthur had. His other hand moved now, skimming down his side to grip his hip, earning a soft whimper from Arthur as a gentle thumb caressed soothing circles into his skin.

“One day,” Merlin rasped against his ear, having lifted his head a fraction to nuzzle the side of his face until Arthur sighed in pleasure. “One day, I’ll show the whole court just how much you mean to me. I’ll prove to you just how much this heart means to me.”

Arthur said nothing, but let himself shiver, let his thighs caress the hips pressing them both apart. His hands ran through raven hair. He let himself believe for a moment that Merlin was his as much as he belonged to Merlin in return. He luxuriated in each caress and murmur, luxuriated in the promise of one day, but knew that he needed to survive the King first.

Surviving King Bayard was vital.


	23. Chapter Twenty-Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains corporal punishment and the aftermath of said punishment.
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think!

The wind retained a chill that still swept through the castle when Imbolc arrived at last. He still wore the fur-lined coat more often than not – not that he minded much. Arthur loved the heated look he received whenever he wore the coat in front of Merlin. Just as he’d loved the chance to tease his master, leaning in close behind him as Merlin read over the numerous reports for the next council session and whispering, his breath hot against that stupid ear as he confessed to having almost rutted against that soft fur, to having almost chased a second peak against it as he tried so hard not to think about Merlin. Just as he’d loved it when Merlin rose from the chair, grabbed him with rough hands and slammed him up against the wall next to the window, promising that Arthur would forget all about that damned fur when Merlin claimed him on the bed...and then the floor...and against the door...over the writing desk and on various other surfaces the man could name as he watched Arthur squirm in place and look away, smirking as Arthur blushed and gripped his tunic hard as his knees threatened to buckle under the weight of that forbidden promise.

Now, however, the snow was disappearing more and more with each passing morning, reducing the roads to little more than slush that ruined his boots when Arthur ventured outside with his master. Cabal went berserk whenever he came across a new puddle. His antics drenched Merlin and Arthur, the pair sharing a glance and a grin before a sharp command brought the excited pup to heel.

The arrival of Imbolc meant the beginning of spring cleaning; a purge of dust and grime spreading as far as the dungeon cells below the citadel. It meant preparing for the birth of new lambs and calves across the whole of Albion. It meant dropping coins into wells for Amatheon – the God of Agriculture – and his continued overseeing of farmland and livestock and offering homage to Modron – the Mother Goddess – through washing clothes at the edges of the various rivers and lakes. It meant a renewal of the ritual run from the Horned God. The last mystified Arthur, who couldn’t fathom how donning a set of ancient antlers could imbue a man with enough stamina to give chase for that long, crashing through thickets and leaping over streams before taking the God-chosen maiden in a nest of leaves. It was rare that the one being chased would be a man...but it did happen now and then. He found himself wishing the Horned God had chosen him and Merlin because it would make the law null and void for a whole night: the will of the Gods trumped the laws of men and not even King Bayard could stop a ritual once the selection was made without incurring the storm of their combined wrath.

Arthur, however, hadn’t been chosen to run from the Horned God. Nor had Merlin been chosen to don the antlers for the night. He and Merlin wouldn’t be rutting, the one draped over the other, both of them grunting and moaning in exertion and pleasure as Arthur buried his fingers in the leaves that would have made their bed for the night. Walking beside his master, Arthur wondered what it would have been like to have Merlin chase him through the Darkling Wood and tackle him to the forest floor, to let himself be devoured.

Merlin brushed his hand with the tip of his finger, catching his attention immediately, and Arthur turned his head to see him smiling, the expression soft and warm. His heart swelled with affection at the sight. It was wonderful to see Merlin smiling again after those long weeks of enforced distance and heartbreak. His master, of course, wasn’t yet back to full spirits: he had too much on his plate between the resurgence of training, dealing with the King, and having to continue this dangerous game that straddled the line between committing treason against the crown and abiding the unjust laws still in place. It wasn’t an enviable position in the least. Honestly, Arthur wasn’t certain he could have managed to toe that line had their positions been reversed and his father still reigned as King, still burned with fury, his hate and intolerance for magic and those who wielded it so blatant that Arthur could never voice an opinion without there being consequences. So blatant that Merlin would have kept his magic a secret instead of trusting Arthur, instead of trusting that he and his father weren’t the same. Arthur knew he wouldn’t have been the man he was now; he might have been sharper and darker, and would have been far less tolerant than Tom inspired him to be. He wasn’t fool enough to think having lessons in hate and intolerance wouldn’t have twisted him in some indefinable way.

Arthur opened the door leading into the new house and called out a greeting, Cabal barking a moment later, following close at his heel with an enthusiastic grin. A wave of controlled magic washed over the pair first and then over his master, cleaning the mud away, leaving them respectable once more before the three crossed the threshold and shut the door, leaving the guards stationed outside. The clang of a hammer ceased and the door leading into the forge opened to expel an overwhelming surge of scorched air; Arthur let his own fingertip brush against the hand nearest him and smiled as Gwen burst into view, raven hair damp with sweat and her skin flushed from the heat. It was wonderful to see her up and around now, at last healed completely; her dress revealed the barest hint of her twin puckered scars.

“Arthur,” Gwen greeted before realising her mistake and offering Merlin a deep bow, fumbling through a formal greeting, her enthusiasm endearing enough to make Merlin forget himself for a moment and sweep her into a warm hug. She squeaked in surprise and Merlin released her in an instant. Arthur released a burst of laughter as the man he loved blushed like an idiot and was prepared to start teasing his master when Gwen swatted his arm. “Don’t be such an arse. Can’t you see His Highness is embarrassed? Be nice!”

“You needn’t bother being all high and mighty,” answered Arthur, diving in quick to give her a hard pinch that almost earned another squeak and then succeeded in earning a second hard swat to the arm. “We both know you’re far worse than me! Have you forgotten that time you shoved Deorwynn into the river? Because I haven’t forgotten and neither has she. Deorwynn never did a single terrible thing to me.”

“It wasn’t like she couldn’t swim.” Gwen made a face. “She never did a thing, but she never discouraged that thug of a cousin from doing stuff to you either, and her silence just enabled his aggression and violence. I would have gone after Jeffrey instead had Elyan not beaten me to it!”

Arthur snorted in amusement and patted her shoulder in passing, crossing to the handsome cupboard facing him and robbing one of the tarts he’d heard were made that morning from Elyan. He took a bite and groaned at the burst of roasted mixed berries and then finished it with two more bites in quick succession. Arthur raised a thumb in approval and grabbed a second tart for his master, pressing it into his surprised hand when Arthur dared to step closer, allowing himself to smile at Merlin when Tom poked his head around the doorjamb and called Gwen back into the forge. Then Arthur headed for the wooden staircase leading up to the second floor and threw a wink over his shoulder, chuckling when Merlin chased him up, chased him into the spare room that would have been his were he to move back into the house. It wasn’t a large or grand room at all and there was just one narrow bed big enough for Arthur and his master at a stretch...but it was one he’d never have to share with his adoptive brother; Merlin had provided a room for each of them and another spare room that Tom had offered to Robyn for helping with the house before she headed south to Cornwall – Pellinore and the rest of his band had lodged in the inn until the guardhouse had prepared their rooms at last. 

Merlin made a noise behind him as Arthur crawled onto the bed. Blushing, Arthur once more looked over his shoulder, choking on an awkward and embarrassed laugh when Merlin tilted his head and gestured for him to keep going, hinting that he was enjoying the view. He let himself flop down instead. He buried his face in the pillow, his face flaming, and wondered what the hell Merlin saw in him as usual. His master crossed the small room and settled close enough to nuzzle his ear, his hair, smiling as his warm breath ghosted across his skin.

“You know,” Merlin murmured against his ear, “I could feel your embarrassment from the door. What I want to know is what you could even be embarrassed about. The Gods know you’re beautiful.”

Arthur shoved Merlin off the bed as his face burned harder, his mouth twisting and his stomach knotting, and turned over to face the wall as Merlin let out a grunt of pained surprise. His master was back a moment later, moulding himself around Arthur, slipping a strong arm around him and pressing the faint ghost of a kiss against his nape. Arthur swallowed against the infuriating urge to shuffle further back and crush that strong arm closer, to smother himself in the blatant affection Merlin was offering, and then swallowed against the urge to let the stupid sting building in his eyes develop into something even more humiliating. He dragged a breath in slow and steady, blinking his vision clear, wanting to apologise for shoving Merlin off the bed and not knowing how, his mouth unable to shape the words as his stomach churned over and over again.  

“Hey,” Merlin said warmly, squeezing him still closer, his voice soft and tender, “how am I supposed to help when you turn over and hide from me? How am I supposed to make things better when you won’t tell me what bothers you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m fine.”

“Arthur...I can feel you trembling,” his master argued gently, thumb starting to rub soothing circles over his sternum. His pounding heart must have been as loud as a war drum. Arthur inhaled sharply, the sound wet and ugly, and then it shook as the breath left him again. “You can tell me anything, no matter what. I’ll never hold it against you.”

“I don’t know what you see in me. For someone meant to be a King, I’m not as smart as I should be and I’m not brave and I’m not skilled enough. I’m not even attractive. No one was ever sweet on me when I was growing up like you and Sir Tor are now; no one ever smiled or blushed when I was around. No one ever gave me stupid trinkets. I wasn’t even ten summers when mothers used to turn around and usher their daughters in the other direction whenever they saw me coming, and then the girls used to avoid me of their own volition when I was approaching manhood – when the lot of them weren’t sneering at me or cackling at me. Jeffrey and the other boys used to hunt me down like an animal...and hit me until just breathing hurt...and tell me how fat I was. How fat I _am_. How worthless I am. That no one wanted me around.” The confession choked out of Arthur, the words harsh and raw, leaving nothing but burning scraps left of his throat. He crushed the hand against his chest to stop the soothing motion as Merlin tensed behind him. Magic pulsed and flared for a moment before Merlin reined it back under his control. His stomach knotted and churned all over again. His eyes burned and he squeezed them shut. “And then Sir Tor _kissed_ me...and I thought...but then he said it was mistake and wasn’t willing to risk having even _this_ torn scrap of a relationship with me and I _understand_ why, I _do_ , and I don’t blame him in the least...but I felt so _stupid_ for thinking someone would ever _want_ me that much.”

“Arthur –”

“I don’t know what keeps you interested...what keeps you coming back for more and I want to know so I can make it better, so I can make sure I’m good enough when the laws change and wanting me loses its thrill –”

“Arthur, remember those lessons on breathing? I need you to breathe now,” Merlin interjected firmly, his hand pulling free of that tight grip to press just below his ribs. Arthur nodded quickly, his vision blurring and spotting, his lungs protesting before he forced himself to take long, slow, deep breaths that shook their way in and out of him until he went boneless with exhaustion within the span of his master’s embrace. Merlin shuffled still closer, pressing another ghost of a kiss against his nape. “This isn’t a childhood crush. This isn’t some passing fancy,” Merlin breathed against his skin as his arm tightened around Arthur. “I could have chosen anyone in Camelot and Mercia or another realm altogether...but I chose you. It isn’t because it was forbidden and it isn’t because of who you’re meant to be. I chose you because of who are: a man with strength enough to forgive the people for treating you that way; a man who goes out in a snowfall to find a lost pup; a man brave enough to face witches that men like Ares fear; a man who can’t hear a single compliment without blushing, and who dissolves into a puddle of bliss when I hold you just right. I chose you because your smile – when you have reason to smile – makes the sun seem dim in comparison. And there is nothing wrong with this either,” murmured his master, his hand now pressing against his belly, warm and soft and loving, and Arthur slid his hand down to tangle their fingers together. “I happen to like your extra padding, you know, but I was attracted first to the man who let his arm be broken to help someone.”

Arthur said nothing, his throat hot and aching, not unlike when he’d have an infection as a child. He remained still and silent as Merlin pressed a third ghost of a kiss against his nape and then another against that spot behind his ear, the one that would have made his knees buckle beneath him had he been standing. A gentle band of magic wrapped around him and coaxed him over, coaxed him to press his face against the shoulder being offered. Merlin ran a hand along the curve of his back. Gentle lips grazed his temple. Another wave of exhaustion rippled through him as Merlin then started to name the physical attributes he was attracted to: the glow of his hair; the slope of his jaw; the proud line of his nose and the curve of his lip; the softness of skin still unaffected by labour; the span from shoulder to shoulder; the curve of his back and the shape of his backside as he crawled onto the bed just now.

He wasn’t certain when he’d fallen asleep, but Arthur woke to find himself sprawled across the bed some time later, the blanket drawn high over him and the moon kissing his face. His boots and stockings were on the floor beside the bed. His heart jumped into his throat when he realised Merlin wasn’t with him. His stomach knotting, Arthur scrambled out of bed and pulled on stockings and boots hastily, lacing his boots as he hopped across the room before thundering down the staircase to burst into the common room in a wild panic.

Conversation stopped as soon as he made an appearance. Cabal jumped down to the floor with little grace as Gwen rose from her chair abruptly, and Tom buried himself in a bowl of stew and a bread roll. The two guards that had followed them from the castle were slumped in the corner, unconscious. Arthur, his heart thumping, looked around for his master, but Merlin was nowhere to be seen.

“Where did M –” Arthur swallowed reflexively, strangling the name before it could escape and looked at Gwen wildly, a cold sweat breaking out on his skin. He tried again without the shrill note of panic present. His hand twitched at his side. “Where is His Highness? Where did he go?”

“He left –”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Arthur roared a moment before he slapped a hand over his mouth. He took an immediate step back at the hurt expression that crossed her face. He looked around again – as though Merlin might poke his head out of a cupboard or something to make light of his absence. His chest felt as though he’d been kicked in the chest since waking, since finding Merlin missing, gone from his side and from the room and even from the damned house. “I’m sorry, Gwen. I never meant to shout at you. Just tell me where he went. Did he say something? How long has he been gone?” Humiliation coloured his face as his voice cracked. “Is he...is he coming back?”

“His Highness hasn’t been gone long – five minutes or so – but he said you might be worried and that I should tell you not to be. That he just went to take care of something important and he’ll be back as soon as possible.”

Arthur wasn’t able to answer, not with his heart lodged so hard in his throat as he bolted from the house. His lungs ached as he looked left and right before making a quick decision based on a few rough calculations and heading toward the citadel. He hadn’t travelled far before the sound of a scuffle caught his attention.

Arthur whipped his gaze to the left and almost choked on his tongue at the sight of Merlin throwing a punch hard enough to send the other figure stumbling, and overbalancing, sprawling in the mud as a hard rain lashed the area. A quick hook around a slender ankle had Merlin falling with a loud squelch. His master cursed and then the two men were scuffling, rolling, snarling at each other in the mud and grunting with effort as fists flew. Arthur bolted forward just to rebound off a sudden flare of golden magic that knocked him on his arse. Squinting, Arthur peered through the rain and felt his heart stop beating, recognising the man defending himself against Merlin in an instant. He’d feared Merlin would do something stupid after what he’d said and his fears were confirmed as Jeffrey fended blow after strong blow, throwing his own with far more force whenever he could. Merlin never used his magic for brawling. He’d spent years training, but it would make little difference in a fight against a man like Jeffrey, a man whose frame was designed for brutality, for violence and aggression and cruelty.

His master was born a lover instead.

Scrambling up, Arthur tried again to breach the shield of magic and let out a sob of relief when it faltered long enough to let him slip through. He reached them in time to stop Merlin from landing yet another blow, to wrap his arms around that lithe man and haul him away, holding on tight as Merlin struggled against him with almost all his might. Arthur overbalanced and the pair went sprawling, the sodden earth squelching, and Merlin thrashed in his grip so hard that he slipped free. He jumped Merlin and brought them both crashing to their knees as Jeffrey staggered to his feet some distance away, wiping a sodden sleeve across his face. Blood and mud smeared across his face. He spat out a broken tooth amid globule of blood and turned away, saying, “You’re in for it now, Pendragon.”

Arthur almost failed to hold his master down when Merlin saw red upon hearing that threat. His muscles strained with the effort of keeping Merlin pinned beneath him as the man who used to torment Arthur stalked off into the darkness. He refused to let go until even the squelching of his footsteps faded into nothing and then his master shoved him away, his expression angry, familiar eyes glowing with magic. Arthur hit the mud all over again and another sob escaped him as flashes from his childhood flickered to the forefront of his mind. Merlin faltered as soon as the sound escaped him and then he reached for Arthur, his expression softening, the golden glow fading, and Arthur reached for him in return. He let himself be pulled to his feet and ushered away, neither of them speaking, not daring to utter a single word until the pair slipped into the house down the road.

Wisely, Tom and Gwen said nothing, but watched as Merlin glanced at the guards slumped in the corner and sighed while Arthur headed up to the second floor. He wasn’t going to stick around for the conversation that would arise as soon as the pair regained consciousness. Arthur slipped into the room that would have been his and started stripping down to nothing, peeling his sodden clothes away, grimacing at the wet mud still caking his skin when he was finished.

Naked now, and his adrenaline ebbing, Arthur started to shake as memories of the encounter whirred through his head. He slid down the length of the wall and settled on the wooden floor, drawing his knees up, hands fisting his own sodden and muddied hair. He lost count of the time passing, lost connection with reality, and flinched when the door burst open to admit a Merlin cleaned of mud. His master froze in the doorway, and then shut the door gently, crossing the room with quiet steps before dropping to a crouch in front of Arthur, who couldn’t control the hammering of his heart or stop his throat from constricting around the sting building behind his eyes. Shame twisted his mouth. He hated when his emotions overwhelmed him. He hated the husk of a man it reduced him to. He hated how Merlin looked at him now – like he was something as fragile and prone to shattering as a glass window. Arthur drew in a wet breath through his nose and looked away, and avoided looking at his master, at the stupid compassion written across his pale face.

“You were right to stop me.” The confession was little more than a murmur, his voice soft and soothing; one Merlin often used when he was anxious and couldn’t breathe. Merlin reached out and cradled his jaw, encouraging Arthur to look at him once more despite his blurring vision. Arthur blinked his vision clear and wasn’t surprised when something wet slit down his cheek to find the thumb now stroking soothing lines across his skin. “I made a mistake in going after Jeffrey, and I’ll regret it tomorrow when he reports the attack to the King. You’ll end up suffering for the mistake I made unless I manage to intervene. I’ll do the best I can.”

“Why even bother intervening for me?” A bitter chuckle escaped Arthur, who looked away for a moment or two, his frame tensing as Merlin looked at him in pained surprise. His head thumped hard against the wall behind him as Arthur wrapped his arms around his knees. Dark humour twisted his mouth. “Not like I’ll get much worse than what you got for sticking up for me during that council session. I just won’t have magic to help with the healing, not really, not without earning his displeasure. But I’ve never managed to please him apart from when he summons me to his rooms...” Arthur trailed off and shook his head until he grew dizzy; he swallowed the rest of the confession that almost escaped him in his moment of rushing weakness. Suspicion and then something unreadable flickered across pale features. Arthur hastened to continue. “No matter how hard I try, I’m never going to atone for existing, for being the reason your father and all those other innocent people are dead.” He stared at Merlin as a thought struck him in the chest like lightning. Tears spilled free in a thick cascade. “Maybe I don’t deserve atonement. Maybe I did something bad in another life and the High Queen is punishing me for it with this one. She does that.”

“You aren’t to blame for being victimised.” Merlin spoke in a voice as hard and unmoveable as stone. He shuffled closer, his hands quick to stroke the torrent of tears away. His powerful magic surged forward and wrapped around Arthur, enveloping him in a warm embrace that felt more like being draped in his stupid comfort blanket back at the castle. A wave of humiliated gratitude washed through Arthur. “You did _nothing_ to warrant his destructive behaviour. Those men are rotten eggs that saw your golden heart and wanted to crush it. But neither man will ever crush that heart. I won’t let them.”

Arthur reached for the man he loved with shaking hands and Merlin pulled him up, crushed him against his chest and let his magic pulse around them in thick comforting waves. He wasn’t sure how long he remained like that or when Merlin cleaned and dried him and his clothes with a wave of his hand. Nor was he certain when Merlin started dressing him with care. Exhaustion made a sluggish mess of him as his master made them all impervious to rain and mud before guiding him and Cabal back to the castle. Arthur remained sluggish when he and Merlin reached the antechamber and Merlin started undressing him with the same care from earlier, hands warm and gentle and coaxing, and Arthur let himself be moved and manipulated as he was dressed in his nightshirt until his head hit the pillow and Merlin pressed the ghost of a kiss against his forehead and then another against the corner of his mouth before leaving the antechamber.

Cabal remained with Arthur, curled up beside him all night long, his soft fur and the slow rise and fall of his small frame a comfort to the hand that stroked him until Arthur slipped into slumber.

The morning arrived to find two Knights bursting into the antechamber and dragging Arthur from the bed with rough hands. Cabal barked like an untamed beast and then started whining, his lunge for the nearest leg thwarted when Arthur snapped a quelling command at his growing pup; his small head tilted to the side as Arthur let himself be dragged from the room. Merlin was moving already, black fabric swirling as he donned his long leather coat fluidly, each movement gliding into the next. The hilt of his favoured sword gleamed where it hung from his belt. Merlin accompanied the group through the castle and stormed into the throne room where Arthur was forced to his knees before the King, who presided over the court with an air of smug satisfaction – almost as smug as Jeffrey, who stood before the King and watched Arthur, smirking as though he’d at last found an ally, and he had. He’d found kinship with the man who hated Arthur most.

The hearing was quick and the ruling quicker: Arthur was sentenced to a public whipping at the hand of his master for inciting violence within Camelot and Mercia and would receive forty lashes at full strength – a sentence that Lord Robert protested at once and claimed far too excessive for a street brawl that Arthur helped stop in the end. His husband and five other councilmen agreed with him. The King, however, remained unmoved on his ruling and watched as Arthur was dragged away, his expression twice as smug as Arthur failed to muster a glare.

Merlin – who’d been forbidden from intervening during the hearing as soon as he entered the throne room – and Sir Tor remained silent and motionless as Arthur was bound to the whipping post.

The people of Camelot watched in silence as Arthur was stripped of his nightshirt with undue force and the help of a sharp blade. Shame burned through him as Arthur tried to keep modest by pressing as close to the whipping post as possible. The scuffed whipping post felt too rough against his sensitive skin and Arthur bit back a whimper. He forced himself to take long, slow, deep breaths as a faint clink told him that someone was removing their belt and then Sir Tor appeared at his side to offer the folded leather; a gift that Arthur accepted at once. His jaw ached as his teeth clenched around the sharp tang of leather. His vision blurred as he heard the whip uncoiling behind him with a distinctive rustle.

Merlin never apologised before the first lash arced through the air. Arthur bit back the immediate scream that threatened to escape and then the second scream a moment or two later, each lash timed and measured perfectly, lines of blazing fire ripping across his back with each long stroke. Sir Tor counted each stroke beside him. Someone in the crowd started sobbing, but Arthur made no effort to locate the source. He swallowed scream after scream and sob after sob and whimper after whimper, his back arching under each lash of the whip, his hands clenching and unclenching where his wrists were bound to the whipping post and his knees buckling, giving out beneath him after the twentieth stroke. He’d survived the half mark and now he just had to survive the second half. Sweat became a blazing inferno across his back. His face drained of colour. Tears soaked his face. Arthur stopped listening to the count three strokes later, and instead focused on the blazing slide of blood over the swell and dip of his backside first and then down the back of his thighs with no trousers to hinder its progression.

Arthur felt like a slab of tenderised meat when the whipping was finished and his wrists were unbound. Sir Tor caught him before he hit the floor and eased him over his shoulder with a low grunt of effort. His vision swam for a minute and then he was being laid down on the worktable in Gaius’ chamber, though he couldn’t remember arriving, couldn’t even remember travelling through the endless corridors.

One gentle hand carded through hair dampened with sweat and another larger one tangled with his. Sir Tor crouched near his head and kissed his palm a moment before Arthur started cursing, thrashing with force enough to send Gaius stumbling, a hoarse scream ripping free of his throat as his open wounds burned at the gentle touch of hot water and a soft cloth. A powerful surge of magic gripped Arthur and forced him to keep still. Gaius and Merlin worked together, cleaning his back of sweat and blood and even the tiniest leather fibres that must have come loose during the whipping. The poultice came next and it was like a soothing balm upon the furious flames burning across his back. Arthur melted against the worktable and focused on the flow of soothing words of encouragement from Sir Tor, who pressed another kiss against his palm and another until Arthur managed to crack a faint smile and murmur, “How about dinner first?”

“As soon as you’re all healed up,” Merlin promised from somewhere behind him and then he was there to press the ghost of a kiss against the corner of an eye still red and sore and swollen from silent weeping. Arthur tilted his head up for another, which Merlin granted immediately, giving him a pained smile as he did so. “Just the three of us. Would you like that?”

Arthur managed to mumble his agreement before blacking out. He slipped in and out of consciousness as Merlin and Gaius worked together to bind him up, the bandages stark against his complexion. Emerging from that deep black to find his head hanging down near a sculpted arse was disorienting, and embarrassing, and an awkward laugh bubbled out of him before Merlin opened the door to the royal chamber and Sir Tor carried him inside with care. A soft blue cloaked was draped over his naked frame and tickled the back of calves before his friend settled him down on his front in the antechamber, where Sir Tor left him alone with his master, left him to the tender show of affection from his pup, which whined and licked at his face.

“Arthur,” croaked his master, his voice breaking as he settled on the bed beside Arthur, his hand carding through his hair with far too much tenderness to bear. Arthur leaned into the touch and hummed in pleasure regardless. “I’m sorry for never noticing, for never seeing how he looks at you now, how he dares you to make an open challenge against his authority. How he hurts you. I should have protected you. I should have made sure you were with me at all times. I won’t make that mistake again. I promise.”

Humming, Arthur let Merlin calm himself down with more promises that would lead nowhere while King Bayard ruled over them both. Merlin wasn’t going to commit treason for him now, not after seeing his own actions earn punishments for those he cared for, and Arthur wasn’t going to ask him to.

His new reign over Camelot and Mercia should have a peaceful beginning, not bloodshed.

Never bloodshed

Arthur had been the cause of enough of that to last a lifetime.


	24. Chapter Twenty-Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter for you all. 
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think!

It took months to recover. Long, slow, agonising months of being bedridden as fever after fever swept through Arthur, his skin ashen and slick with sweat as he writhed and moaned and panted through his delirium. He’d even heard Merlin and Sir Tor weeping, the sound distant through the thick haze of his fever, but he’d felt their hands crushing his. He’d managed to squeeze back somehow, though it sapped his strength. He’d emerged from his delirium more than once to find Merlin missing, sent out to investigate some disturbance at the border, having left Sir Tor in charge of caring for him in his absence. Usually, such disturbances were the handiwork of Morgana Pendragon and whatever meagre forces she’d managed to gather during the long months since her treasonous plot made an appearance in Camelot. Those moments spent without his master were the most painful he’d lived through. It felt as though the fever had claimed him whenever Merlin was absent. Just breathing in and then back out again became the most difficult thing in the world. Only sheer stubbornness kept him around long enough to welcome him home and then welcome the soft ghosts of kisses that Merlin would bestow, his tempting and handsome mouth just about grazing his skin in that tantalising manner, earning soft hums and whimpers of pleasure from Arthur, fingers just managing to grip at the cool hauberk pressing close.

Several lacerations and welts had to be re-opened or punctured more than once over the course of those long months: Gaius had to bleed him of fluids that smelled most foul. Only a small fraction of those fluids ran clear; the rest were tinged with various shades of yellow and green that made Arthur sick to the stomach whenever he spied them staining his old bandages before Merlin could sweep them out of sight. He’d overheard the two conferring, whispering, squirreled away in the corner, but his hearing was still working just fine: Merlin wondered whether it was possible to curse a wound like his without leaving a trace. His master couldn’t detect a single foul curse with his magic. Gaius had been at a loss to explain the extent of the infection: Arthur was a strong young man with a better constitution than most and his care from a mage adept at the healing arts was unparalleled.

Arthur wasn’t certain when his health started to swing, when it started veering back into the clear, but he remembered the first time he managed to sit at the table through sheer determination and pleading, his voice having cracked as he begged Merlin to help him out of the bed. He’d begged him to understand that being bedridden was driving him insane. Merlin had caved with reluctance and had then started beaming, feathering the most tender kisses against his hair, watching Arthur grin like an idiot for being out of bed for the first time in what felt like forever. Sir Tor, ragged after an afternoon overseeing several hours of vigorous training, had returned to find them like that and he’d given a delighted cheer, swooping in to cover his face in the warmest and messiest kisses Arthur had ever experienced. He’d kissed him because he couldn’t crush Arthur with a tight hug in celebration without hurting his back. Merlin didn’t seem to mind the kisses much. He’d just smiled when Arthur looked at him in surprised confusion.

Sir Tor, however, never did more than kiss his face and his hands from time to time. He never did more than make Arthur feel loved and appreciated. It was more than strange to feel that way, strange to feel so wanted in one sitting, especially when Tom and his adoptive siblings weren’t present most of the time.

The three of them wanted to visit Arthur, he knew, but were forbidden from entering the castle – their visits were limited to when Deorwynn dared to sneak one of them in unbeknownst to the Prince of Camelot and Mercia until he or she were safe inside. Merlin never had the heart to scold Deorwynn as Arthur let himself be fussed over in order to soothe his concerned family, as he let Gwen sob into his shoulder or let Elyan rant at him in an angry whisper or let Tom draw him into an embrace without using arms. Such embraces consisted of Arthur pressing his face against his middle as Tom stroked his hair. Just as Tom had when he was a child with enough issues to make most parents shout in frustration and pull their own hair out. But he’d never shouted at Arthur when he was growing up. He’d never once made him feel like an unwanted burden best left out on the streets. He’d never made him feel like less than family, like he mattered less than his own children.  

Arthur was doing much better now. He was even moving in and out of the two chambers under his own steam...even if the exertion taxed him heavily, his weakened muscles tired and quaking, reaching out for the nearest surface when Merlin or Sir Tor weren’t available just then. He’d fallen once only, the brief and unexpected wave of sudden dizziness sending him and the nearest chair toppling, his still healing back screaming, his face burning with shame and humiliation as Sir Tor had bolted up from his chair at the table and sprang forward to get to him. He’d cursed loud enough to wake the dead and he’d raised a shaking hand to stop Sir Tor from touching him. He’d refused to let his friend closer until Arthur realised he couldn’t get back up, his back and shoulders unwilling to take the strain of pushing him up, healing lacerations splitting open all over again in the attempt.

Merlin had come back from a terse meeting with King Bayard to find Sir Tor rebinding Arthur, the bandages glowing white and new, stark against his skin. He’d been at his side in an instant and had taken over, his movements confident and efficient in a way that Arthur often envied. He’d demanded to know what happened. Sir Tor had been about to tell him when Arthur cast a quelling glare his way, and Sir Tor had smiled and raised his hands in surrender, saying, “I’d rather not take sides. I’m...just going to leave now and the two of you can work this out together, without me here to get in the way.”

Then he’d bolted out the door.

“Well?”

Arthur had clenched his jaw, intending to ignore his master, but Merlin could be an insistent and persuasive bastard at times. Merlin had poked him hard enough to make him snap, “What do you think happened? I was walking across the chamber, and then I started swooning like a damned girl!”

“You know, I’m not sure Gwen would appreciate your tone or that implication. And I keep telling you that getting overeager isn’t good for you –”

“Shut up!”

“I just want to help,” Merlin had snapped in return with ire enough to make him falter, to make him glance over his shoulder and look up at his master, who’d bitten his own lip hard enough to break the skin as he’d finished securing the bandages at last. Merlin had crossed the royal chamber then and thrown himself down on the bed without even pausing long enough to remove his boots or scabbard. He’d stared at Merlin for a long moment and then he’d heaved himself up, up, up onto uncertain feet to cross the royal chamber with even less certain legs. He’d eased himself onto the bed with a pained whimper and then his master had peeked out at him from where he’d buried his face in the nearest luxurious pillow. “I’m...not...trying to be overbearing,” Merlin had murmured at last as he reached out to run a callused fingertip along the curve of his jaw. “I just...don’t like seeing you hurt for longer than you need to be. I want you to heal. Your overeager determination is hindering that.”

“And I don’t mean to be ungrateful.” He’d avoided looking at Merlin as the words escaped him in an embarrassed and apologetic rush. Each breath he’d taken had pushed against the mattress – he still wasn’t able to lie on his back. His voice had fallen to less than a murmur. “But I don’t like being immobile. I don’t like needing someone to take care of me all the time. How am I supposed to look after all those people when I can’t even look after just me?”

“You know, Arthur, a large part of being a good monarch is: knowing when you need to accept help and also knowing how to ask for that help without letting people undermine your own personal strength. This is something we can work on together.” Merlin had given him a strained smile then as he’d captured his hand and squeezed just so. “We have an ocean of time to prepare you for that step, okay? No need to get worked up over it yet.”

Not that he would ever say so, but Merlin was right. He’d been thinking about it since that private moment together. How could his future people ever trust an untried monarch that wasn’t willing to trust them in return? Arthur vowed to work on that future aspect of ruling: trusting his future people to help him when he needed help and helping them in turn when trusted to. He wanted Camelot to be known for such trust. He wanted Camelot to be a jewel of trust and compassion sparkling at the heart of a warm and welcoming Albion. He wanted the distant continent and even the world beyond to see Albion as a place of safety and harmony, a place free of hatred and persecution. Arthur knew it was a fanciful dream that might never be attained within his lifetime...but he wanted to try, wanted to inspire others to make the attempt after him.

Just managing to achieve that much would be enough.

Spring was long over and the summer was underway, and part of Arthur was devastated to have missed so much of the world outside the royal chamber, but most of him was relieved at having avoided King Bayard for so long. Not having to heal broken bones with the crystal or conceal bruises from Merlin was liberating. Not having to wake up and fear being summoned to his side was a balm to the deep ache in his soul. The King couldn’t even come looking for Arthur; he’d tried once and a golden wall of magic had flared and lashed out hard enough to send him reeling, toppling, sprawling hard across the floor, and he’d exploded with anger, demanding an explanation for this outrage. Merlin had opened the door and stood firm between him and Arthur, his jaw clenched in anger, his eyes glowing, but he’d almost vibrated with a dangerous calm as he spoke to the King: “I’d extend an apology, Your Majesty, but the wards I’ve set in place are meant to bar those who seek to do harm from entering. Guess you’ll just have to find another reason to visit.”

Arthur wasn’t fond of remembering that encounter with the King, but it had been an immense relief all the same. He’d been concerned that King Bayard would come to him in order to get his usual fix of unrestrained violence and aggression. But his master remained one step ahead of the King at a given time: Merlin anchored a spell to the crystal hanging from his neck before Arthur started venturing outside the royal chamber, broadening the scope of rehabilitative exercises that Gaius had prescribed to aid his recovery, to help him overcome the muscle fatigue after those long months of disuse. The spell would set off a jarring alarm within Merlin whenever the King approached Arthur, and Merlin would teleport to his location – his master was still practicing that method of travelling, and his teleportation was still spotty, but he succeeded six times out of ten when it wasn’t something important. He succeeded ten times out of ten when it meant reaching Arthur before the King could hurt him. His master claimed that having a reason to cross distances in a short space of time made it easier, made his core more willing to settle down and obey, to bend to his will and let him find himself beside Arthur in a heartbeat.

He could remember the first time Merlin had accomplished the feat with great clarity, could remember the terror that shot through him when he’d turned a corner and came face to face with the King, that rough and too familiar hand wrapping his vulnerable throat and slamming him up against the stone wall hard enough to earn a shout of pain as his eyes watered. He could remember the explosion of fire that ripped across his still healing back. King Bayard had released him the moment Merlin arrived amid a storm of violent wind and lightning, his power flashing red and blue and almost blinding white as his eyes blazed with molten magic. Arthur had never been more grateful when Merlin sent him on the most pointless errand ever: to ask the kitchen staff whether there would be tarts or pudding for dessert that evening. He never asked what happened after he’d fled that corridor as fast as he could and Merlin never told him. It just wasn’t something worth repeating, not when he and Merlin had a private moment together, not when he and Merlin tried to luxuriate in each other, tried to luxuriate in the ghosts of kisses that couldn’t be actualised and caresses to his jaw and arms and neck that made Arthur shiver and sigh in pleasure.

Midsummer came and went with little incident. The one thing worth noting was the sharp increase of attacks along the border near Essetir, his biological sister wreaking havoc and often fighting against his master, the pair of them holding nothing back. Merlin often came home from such an encounter shaking, his face drained of colour, his hauberk torn or his clothes still smoking where he’d come face to face with scarlet flames or furious arcs of lightning. His master never told him anything, but Arthur knew him enough to know Merlin was worried about her, about the depth of her power; he wondered whether Merlin might have at last found an equal or someone close enough to being one to make it difficult.

“Arthur, are you coming? I’m taking Cabal out to stretch his legs.” Merlin poked his head around the doorjamb and smiled encouragingly, eyes sparkling, the last encounter with Morgana Pendragon forgotten at last. Arthur, having almost recovered fully, ceased his usual routine of stretches and turned to face his master, more than eager to escape the boundaries of the castle for the first time in forever. He reached for his tunic without a word and slipped it over his head. His back had improved immensely, but some of the muscles were still stiff and unwilling, still reluctant to function as before. Gaius assured him such reluctance would fade in time. Honestly, it was enough to be able to walk around without fear of his muscles giving up on bearing his weight. He could handle a little stiffness now and then. Merlin beamed at his unspoken decision and hastened away, crossing the royal chamber to fetch his favoured blade and Carnwennan – both of which he secured to the belt slung across the narrow span of hips that Arthur often fantasised about gripping, pulling closer, and enveloping with his thighs. “You know,” Merlin teased without even glancing over his shoulder, “I can feel your face glowing, you’re blushing so hard right now. Want to tell me something?”

Arthur blushed even harder.

“I love it when you’re speechless.” Merlin glanced over his shoulder then. His gaze smouldered something fierce. His voice dropped to little more than a murmur before Merlin winked at him. “One day, I’m sure you’ll be speechless for reasons other than these immense feats of perception.”

Arthur threw a pillow at his master, the blow to the face sudden and unexpected and sending Merlin stumbling, catching his balance against the nearest bedpost. Merlin blinked at him an instant before magic flooded his gaze and Arthur found himself pinned against the chest now moulded against his back. Quick fingers dived under his tunic to find his vulnerable and sensitive skin. A breath punched out of him. Arthur struggled to squirm away, tried to swallow the immediate burst of laughter, his face reddening with the effort of holding it back until Merlin buried his own face against his neck. His laughter tumbled out of him then. He could feel Merlin grinning against his skin as that laughter tripped and jolted out of him until he was a shaking mess.

“Going to apologise?”

“No,” Arthur yelped as raven hair tickled his jaw. He reached up to grip that hair with one hand and seized a narrow hip with the other, his knees buckling, Merlin sinking down to the stone floor with him. A sharp whistle sounded and claws clicked across the stone in a rush. Cabal went after his exposed middle with a wet nose and Arthur almost choked on another burst of laughter, this one louder and sharper, managing to hit a pitch that bordered the feminine. Arthur pushed at the determined nose that kept snuffling around his naval. The determined and playful pup grinned up at him and nipped at his fingers before renewing his attack of unwitting tickles with renewed vigour. “You little traitor!”

The attack on his skin never ceased until Arthur was a writhing heap of uselessness that couldn’t draw adequate breath for laughing so hard. Merlin flopped down on the floor beside him and panted from exertion as Arthur struggled to muster enough coherence to make a formal complaint about such unfair and outrageous treatment from His Highness.

Several minutes passed before Merlin turned his head and gazed at Arthur, spending a long moment watching his broader chest continue heaving, drawing in mouthful after mouthful of blessed air. His gentle hand grazed the scarred forearm on display, faint and loving, almost bordering on reverent. Arthur turned his head and looked at his master in return. His flushed skin and mirthful smile were too tempting to describe. His breath caught at the sight. Merlin slid his hand down to grip his and his mirthful smile faded into something softer, sweeter, and far more melancholic than should be legal. Arthur turned over with a faint grunt of effort and shuffled close enough to press the ghost of a kiss against the corner of his mouth. He smiled then and pressed another, and another, and another, until Merlin chuckled and asked whether he was still up for that walk.

“I’m up for something,” mumbled Arthur, delighting in the flood of heat the comment produced. Not to mention the exquisite blush that stained the pale features that tantalised him so often. He grinned at Merlin. Arthur shifted closer, pushing up from the floor and straddling his master in one somewhat less than fluid move that earned a wave of embarrassment from him and a warm chuckle from Merlin. But the chuckling faded when Arthur leaned forward and braced both hands against the stone on either side of those ridiculous ears. Merlin swallowed. One glance down let him see those familiar hands twitching, aching to reach out and grasp, perhaps to grip his hips and pull him down against the length now hardening beneath him. The heat of his master pressed against him with just enough pressure to make his eyes flutter shut in wistful anticipation that wouldn’t even be fulfilled within the next decade – unless something unexpected and catastrophic happened in the meantime. But his toes curled in pleasure at knowing he had such an effect upon Merlin. It boded well for their distant future together. Looking back up, Arthur pressed the ghost of a kiss against the tip of his nose and then hovered above that tantalising mouth that tempted him so often. Merlin swallowed again and did touch him then: just the graze of possessive fingers where the curve of his hip threatened to become the swell of his backside. It almost made him reach down and crush them against his hip. Maybe even encourage that hand to slip around and grip him right where he wanted Merlin to – right where Merlin wanted to grip him. Arthur smirked instead. He knew the smirking drove Merlin wild with frustrated lust. “Don’t pretend like you weren’t expecting that remark. You walked right into that.”

“I...think we need to go now before I do something stupid.”

Arthur hummed in agreement...but neither moved until Cabal started pulling on the hem of his blue tunic. He swatted at the growing pup, his expression scolding, but the moment between him and Merlin was ruined. Cabal seemed unaffected as he pranced around the pair with growing enthusiasm and barked like a fool as Arthur rose to his feet and helped Merlin get to his. Cabal tugged on his tunic again. Cloth ripped under his enthusiasm. Arthur sighed and commanded him to stop, a stern frown furrowing his brow when his pup – taller now and ganglier, but growing more a robust – stilled at once and tilted his head to the side. His pink tongue lolled out amid a stupid grin that reminded Arthur too much of Merlin for him to remain serious for long, his hand rising to hide the grin that bloomed in answer; one Merlin noticed before it could disappear from view.

“I see where all that affection goes now, Arthur Pendragon. I’m on to you.”

Laughing, Arthur cuffed his master across the head and the laugh faded to a warm chuckle when Merlin pulled him in closer, right up against him. Neither of them spoke for a moment as he and Merlin luxuriated in each other, in that moment of shared breathing, one chest expanding as the other contracted. Merlin pressed their foreheads together for an instant and then he was moving, running a quick hand through his raven hair, darting over to the door as he patted his leg. Cabal scrambled after him. Arthur watched them go for a moment. Two of the beings he cared for most in the whole world and one of them was just a pup – an aggravating and annoying, precious and loyal and loving pup, but a pup all the same.

Arthur couldn’t imagine a world without Cabal.

He didn’t want to imagine one.

Swallowing, Arthur headed after them without a word and hastened to catch up to his master, ignoring the clank of chainmail and the thump of boots that followed behind them. He found it was best to ignore the various guardsmen keeping a watchful eye over him and Merlin when wandering through the castle. He ignored the guards that witnessed his encounter with the King in particular, ignored the unnerved glances the men shot at each other, ignored the whispers whenever Arthur spotted them in some corner, having a word with comrades or with serving staff. He ignored the sympathetic stares from the chambermaids that arose as a result. Arthur wasn’t going to discuss it with them – not when the memory of that hand wrapped around his neck often had Merlin bursting into the antechamber, stricken with fright and worry, to find Arthur panicking in his sleep; he’d been bound to the bed to prevent him from turning over onto his once ruined back.

But it wasn’t the worst nightmare that plagued him. He hated and feared the other one ten times as much. He feared the familiar hand that gripped his hair and twisted hard enough to make him gasp, feared the dark chuckle that caressed his ear before the man backed away, uncoiling the whip in his grasp. He hated the harsh lick of flaming leather striping his back. His stomach knotted when that familiar voice called him a coward for begging him to stop. He hated the laugh that tickled his senses when Arthur broke down and wept against the whipping post as that dark reflection of Merlin flogged him right down to the bone and then buried his pale fingers in the gaping, hot lacerations that striped him until his flesh looked more like a slab of ruined meat instead of his back.

Mostly, Arthur loathed the King for taking what he loved most in the world and making it impossible to bear even the simplest touch in the immediate wake of such a horrific nightmare. He hated the automatic twist of terror and nausea in his stomach when Merlin loomed behind him in the dark until Arthur grasped that he wasn’t still stuck in that nightmarish dreamscape.

Waking up bound to the bed had never helped him grasp that fact quick enough.

His master, however, never said a thing whenever Arthur flinched away, whenever he wrenched free of his grip – his attempt at offering comfort in the darkness. Merlin never held his reaction against him. It never made Merlin question the strength of the growing bond holding them together, but a man could suffocate in the quiet outpouring of guilt and regret and pain with ease. Arthur was determined to overcome that nightmare. He was more than unwilling to contemplate a future where such a nightmare would have him panicking, soaked with sweat and thrashing awake beside the man that would become his husband one day, and maybe even the father of whatever children he might have.

Arthur admired the beaming smile that made an appearance when he and his master, and his growing up, burst out into the sunshine warming the courtyard and the town beyond. He admired the enthusiasm that lit up his whole being when Merlin led them through the lower town and into the Darkling Wood. His chest aching, Arthur watched him pick up a stick and throw it as far as he could – Cabal bolted after the stick in an instant.

Part of him wondered what Merlin would be like with children of his own: whether he’d be the firm hand that guided them and whether he’d be as loving and nurturing as he was now. He wondered whether Merlin even wanted any. His gaze dropped to inspect the nearest flowering bush. He couldn’t imagine Merlin wanting to have children with him – not when his lineage would taint them before their little hands and feet ever hit the ground.

His mouth twisted at the thought.

Arthur sat down on a log nearby, and watched his master, doing his best to ignore the ache flaring in his chest. It was far too soon to think about having children. He and Merlin hadn’t even made love. He hadn’t even kissed him yet – not really, not properly, not with pressure enough for him to feel more than the barest tingle of precious sensation. He’d overheard so much about kissing when growing up, about how good it could feel when drawn close to a lover, about lips starting to ache as one was kissed senseless against a wall or a warm bed. He’d overheard how good it could feel when those same lips trailed down over exposed skin to wrap around hard and aching nipples and then lower to that interested and eager flesh between parted thighs. His heart thumped against his ribcage at the thought of doing that with Merlin. His stomach flipped and flopped when eyes sparkling with mirth turned to face him and Arthur thought about doing it – about shoving Merlin up against the nearest tree and crushing their mouths together, about kissing him until both of their lips were aching, until he and Merlin were clutching at each other with shaking desperation.

But he did nothing of the sort. Arthur chose instead to smile at his master and rise up from the log, plucking the stick from his grasp, and taking over without a word. He and Merlin ran Cabal ragged and then led the exhausted pup back to the castle. He then dozed with Cabal in the antechamber, allowing the soft ball of fur to curl up against his middle as Arthur rested his head upon a welcoming lap, humming in contentment as gentle fingers carding through his hair and Merlin read to them both in a soothing voice.

His duties returned in full after that outing.

It was a relief to be working again: Arthur hated knowing he’d been paid to sprawl across the bed and suffer fever after fever, unable to do even one simple duty, unable to earn a living with his usual hard labour. He hated being idle. He hated knowing he relied upon the kindness of his master to make a living when bedridden. Now, feeling the need to make up for his.... _injury_ , Arthur completed his own duties and also volunteered to help the kitchen staff or even the laundresses throughout the day, working until his hands were raw and sore and Merlin scolded him for being an idiot.

“Have you heard what happened in Essetir,” hissed a familiar voice as Audrey barrelled into the kitchen one morning a few weeks later; her round face flushed with exertion and horrified excitement. Arthur and the other cooks under her supervision glanced at her in the same instant even as he ducked under the arms of a passing servant bearing a platter laden with the King’s breakfast. “King Cenred slaughtered a unicorn!”

Arthur froze at the announcement and several others did as well. A wooden spoon clattered to the floor and then a dish shattered against the stone. A wave of horror crashed through the sweltering chamber, the feeling combined with the heat threatening to make him dizzy, and he braced himself against the nearest counter. He’d read about such creatures during his studies of magic and knew unicorns were trusting, loving, warm and innocent animals that bestowed a visit as a gesture of kindness: hate and fear were said to ease when a unicorn walked the earth. That someone would turn around and reject such an offer was despicable – not to mention unheard of. It sickened him and several others in the kitchen.

“Has the Keeper visited him yet?”

“I don’t know,” answered Audrey, responding at once to her underling before aiming a pointed look at Arthur. She plucked the bowl of flour from his grasp. “I don’t know what happened after that. But I know that His Highness collapsed while out walking with Sir Tor when he felt the sudden shift in the balance and then threw up on himself –”

Arthur bolted from the room before the head cook even finished speaking; he knew she’d granted permission when taking the flour from him. His heart thumped as he raced through the castle. He burst through the door to find his master shaking, supported against Sir Tor, who looked more than unnerved. Merlin stilled looked wan. He looked like he’d throw up all over again. Arthur closed the distance between them and ignored the scent of vomit that clung to the air – the scent that clung to the pale skin bared after Sir Tor peeled the scarlet tunic away, revealing that the drain of colour had spread to far more than just his face. Arthur and Sir Tor shared a concerned glance as the Knight stepped away, allowing him to take over, allowing him to care for his master.

Neither of them liked seeing Merlin so upset.

Merlin couldn’t even muster a smile as Arthur undressed him first and then helped him into the waiting bathtub.

Merlin said nothing as he sank down into the steaming water, the heat forcing colour back into his flesh as his head rested against the folded cloth designed to support his slender neck. His hands sat limp against his thighs. Arthur and Sir Tor shared another brief glance before taking a cloth each and dipping them into the steaming water. Merlin broke down and wept as Arthur and Sir Tor worked together to clean him up, washing that foul and pervading residue from his skin. His master was a mage more in tune with nature than most and the balance affected him fiercely, but the effect was much stronger when innocent creatures of magic were slaughtered in particular; a unicorn would never have gone on a vicious and murderous rampage like the Questing Beast had the previous year. A unicorn would never harm another creature – regardless of whether a hunter aimed a crossbow right at their heart.

A visiting unicorn might as well have been a duck without wings.

Just the thought of slaughtering a unicorn sickened Arthur. It made his flesh crawl...but all he could do was hope that King Cenred passed the three tests waiting for him now; his people didn’t deserve to suffer for his needless murder, his cruelty and stupidity.


	25. Chapter Twenty-Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This chapter contains some dialogue from the show, though altered in part. 
> 
> WARNING: This chapter contains mention of forced sexual situations/forced prostitution.
> 
> As always, feel free to let me know what you think!

Merlin appeared to recover from what happened when in public. He seemed as pleasant as ever in front of the common people and as rigid and intense as ever before the King, but he remained quiet and distant in private for a while after. He often slipped into a stupor until Arthur poked him in the shoulder and jolted him back to the present. Merlin would give him a small smile then and reach out to give his hand a reassuring squeeze or caress his jaw with a tendril of magic. It wasn’t enough to reassure Arthur in the least...but it was better than nothing, better than seeing that wan and shaking remnant of his master purging his stomach over and over, his nausea fuelled at night when dreams of slaughtered magical creatures disrupted his slumber. Seeing Merlin so distraught shattered his heart each time.

Arthur kept his ear perked for word of Essetir, often heading down to the market on unofficial behalf of his master, taking the chance to have a listen for some gossip with a grain of truth contained within. He even slipped into the tavern now and then to have a serious discussion with a mercenary, his gaze sharp and his hearing sharper as the usual patrons continued on as ever around them. Arthur could still remember the first time he sought the woman out. He could still remember the sharp edge of her battle-axe gleaming over the bare curve of her tan shoulder and the sharper edge of her stare piercing him as he sat down opposite her, a tankard of mead on offer; she’d raked him from head to toe and smirked before drawling, “Does your benevolent master know you’re out looking for a ride?”

“What makes you think I’m looking for a ride?”

It had taken a monumental effort to keep the humiliated flush off his face. Instead he’d arched an eyebrow, the expression he wore condescending – a trick he’d learned from Gaius. He’d practiced the expression in front of the mirror earlier that evening, having thought he might need it. It had seemed he’d been right. His master, however, had walked in on him practicing and had proceeded to laugh himself into a coughing fit before sweeping in to soothe the resultant sting, nuzzling his neck. Arthur had forced himself not to think about his master, of course, knowing Merlin could make him blush at the drop of a pin.

The drawling note in his own voice had made the mercenary rake him all over again.

“You’ve just got that starved look about you.” She’d braced her arms across the table and leaned forward in her chair, amusement flickering across her face. Then she’d fingered the rim of the tankard in front of her, her head tilting, the pair of them taking the measure of each other as the silence between them stretched. Her hair had glowed like fire in the shadows. “What are you after then? I don’t think you’re looking for a kill.”

He’d placed the weighted purse of coins down on the small scuffed table separating them and then watched as muted surprise sparked in her gaze for a single instant. It had vanished almost as quick. Instead an arrogant expression had taken over, the mercenary leaning back in her chair and drawling, “What makes you think I won’t take your damned money, walk out the door, and skip town before you can even draw breath to protest?”

“Call it instinct.” He’d learned forward in turn and let himself smirk slowly, watching the silent cogs turning behind her sharp gaze. His voice had dropped to a silken murmur; a skill he’d managed to develop during his years of servitude under the Prince of Camelot and Mercia. “See that scarred Knight in the corner? He hasn’t stopped watching you from the moment I sat down. So...unless you want to spend a night in a dungeon cell...I’d avoid thieving in the heart of Camelot.”

That comment had surprised a laugh out of her, the sound warm and deep, which sent satisfaction flickering through Arthur. She’d waved at him to continue then and Arthur had settled back in his chair, his smirk broadening, saying, “I saw you bartering with that Essetian lace in the market. What do you know?”

“You want to know about lace?” She’d arched a supercilious eyebrow and then raked him all over again. He’d seen her imagination whirring; Arthur had flushed scarlet then. He’d known he’d messed that question up as soon as it escaped him. Knowing how to ask the right questions had become one more skill he’d need to acquire for the future. “I never would have guessed. But I suppose what a man wears in private is his own business.”

“Essetir,” he’d said through a clenched jaw, his shoulders tensing, his attention flicking to Sir Tor, who’d tensed in his chair as though he were an instant from crossing the room to settle down beside Arthur, “I want to know about Essetir. What do you know about what happened? Do you know how the people are faring?”

The supercilious amusement had fallen from her face in an instant. She’d snatched the offered mead and taken a long swallow, eyes closing, as though to ward off whatever thoughts darkened her head in that moment.

“I know,” she’d said eventually, not drawling but slow, “King Cenred threw his cousin-in-law into the dungeon for calling him an ignorant fool before the court and punching him in the face. No less than he deserved.” Her lips had thinned. “Crops are failing across the whole of Essetir and apples in orchards are rotting faster than the farmhands can pick them. Livestock are sickening at an alarming rate. Fortunately, the curse left stored grains and preserved meats untouched – but those won’t last forever, not with so many hungry, so many depending upon King Cenred. Essetir has one of the largest populations in Albion and it has never been the most arable nation: already having struggled for most of the year, the poorest will be the first to starve to death. Merchants and nobles and others with enough coin and determination to flee are fleeing, crossing the border, seeking refuge in Tír-Mór, Nemeth and Anglia.”

“Not Amata?”

“Don’t even get me started on that prick.” Anger and disgust and so much burning hatred had blazed across her face in an instant. She’d slammed her tankard down hard enough to send it sloshing over the rim. He’d frowned down at the needless waste of mead before arching an eyebrow, demanding an explanation without uttering a single word. “King Sarrum would sooner enslave those poor people than help them. He and King Alined aren’t so different. Those two are a match made in the darkest pits of the otherworld. Death would be merciful compared with either of those monarchs.”

“At least King Rodor will help,” Arthur had said confidently, remembering the visiting monarch for his kindness and welcoming nature. King Rodor had been one of the few visiting nobles that even noticed him in the first place – most of them never saw past his status as manservant until the King pointed him out and then Arthur had become a curiosity, someone to be stared at and pondered with dark intent. Sitting opposite the mercenary, he’d remembered how King Bayard had pulled him aside during one such visit from the King of Dyfed a year and a half earlier and purred in his ear about the lucrative offer made for the chance to bed him. He’d remembered how tempted King Bayard had sounded as Arthur tensed in his grasp, his hand curling into a fist as he’d glanced around to see his master trapped in conversation with the King of Dyfed in the far corner, too distracted to see the stance King Bayard was using to intimidate him. He’d remembered the cold sweat that broke out on his skin and the dark chuckle that escaped the King, who’d shoved him away, telling him to get out of his sight before he reconsidered the refusal he’d given. “King Rodor is one of the best monarchs in Albion: the people of Essetir could find no one better to help – apart from His Highness of Camelot and Mercia.”

Arthur and the mercenary had continued to talk about Essetir, about King Cenred having failed the first test laid before him and the people left to suffer for it. He’d wanted to get out there and do something, to help people cross the border into Camelot and Mercia or bring them food where possible. According to the mercenary, however, Anglia had tried to bring food across to them before and no endeavour had been successful in the least – the food had started rotting as soon as it crossed the border, much to their horror.

Now, some weeks later and polishing a sword for his master, Arthur thought about those people left behind in Essetir. He thought about the two tests now failed. He thought about the subjects that had starved to death already, some of the littlest ones no match for their overwhelming hunger, and his vision blurred. If he’d been the King of Essetir, he’d...he’d...he wasn’t even certain what he’d do, but Arthur knew he would never hide himself in his castle as King Cenred had done. Just to avoid the overwhelming anger and dissatisfaction of his suffering people. Or so the mercenary had reported to him when she’d returned from a job the other day, her face a mask of anger, her frame thinner than it had been before she left for Essetir; the weaver had hired her to help relatives from Engerd cross the border into Camelot.

Merlin was helping in his own way, though he seemed to think it wasn’t good enough in the least. People due to give birth had been some of the first to receive aid from Merlin: he’d had them flown to various Druidic settlements dotted throughout the united realms and even Nemeth. Such people would be under the care and supervision of some of the most adept practitioners of healing magic. Merlin had also been sending the dragons out to hunt in the Mercian lands bordering Essetir and the North Sea separating Albion from Scandinavia – having them catch some of the larger fish in the sea. He’d been having mages make camp nearby, preparing stews and broths with the fresh meats provided and whatever vegetables could be spared from the two citadels – a steward governed the one at the heart of Mercia while King Bayard remained in Camelot – while some of the larger dragons flew to the nearest Essetian villages and towns to inform them that hot food waited a short flight away. He’d had the dragons focus first on the elderly, the infirm and the young; a choice that their loved ones appreciated enough to fall to their knees at the sight of an approaching dragon as the long weeks progressed.

Gwen and Lancelot had volunteered to help feed the starving. Arthur, however, had been forbidden from doing so. He’d been forbidden from going so close to the border, so close to freedom from the King, so close to a life without a dagger aimed between his shoulder blades.

Arthur looked at his master, who was now hunched over his writing desk and frowning, doing his best to come up with some new manner in which to help the Essetian people. That renewed sense of purpose helped keep Merlin from slipping into the daze that Arthur had come to hate in such a short time. Arthur looked back down at the sword in his grasp, hand and cloth gliding, sliding down its length and back up again. He oiled the steel as soon as he finished polishing, watching the slick shimmer, doing his best to lose himself in his work. Obsessing over what he couldn’t change would accomplish nothing, but get him worked up, and that would just distract Merlin from his own work. He couldn’t do that. So he worked through one sword and then another, and another, and another before taking care of the new longbow – another gift from King Rodor, one to replace the one he’d lost against the Questing Beast the previous year. His hands moved through the practiced motions that used to distract Merlin so much in the past.

Eventually, Merlin gave up, pulling upon his raven hair with a frustrated sigh before scratching out whatever plan he’d written. Shadows marred pale skin when Merlin raised his head and gave him a defeated stare. Arthur set aside the longbow, dried his hands and rose from his favourite chair, crossing the chamber quickly. He cradled one pale cheek and swooped in to press the ghost of a kiss against that furrowed brow, continuing to do so until he felt it smooth out beneath his phantom touch. His master sighed again.

“You’ve done all you can do,” murmured Arthur, pressing another ghost of a kiss against the bridge of his nose and then against the tip. “All you can do is hope King Cenred passes the last test.”

“He won’t.” The conviction in his voice sent a chill shooting through Arthur. He pulled back and looked down at his master, his heart thumping at the dread written upon his face. “You weren’t working here when he came to visit. He was handsome enough and clever, but cold and egocentric and laced with so much wilful ignorance that my skin crawled whenever he spoke. He wanted so much to make a weapon of magic. King Cenred is awful. He won’t pass the third test and his people will keep starving until not a single soul remains.”

“No,” Arthur argued immediately, his tone hardening so fast that Merlin blinked up at him in surprise. His grip tightened a fraction. “Souls _will_ remain. Souls that you helped save. Children will grow up knowing what you did to help them and their families. Should the worst occur, we’ll do something. We’ll figure something out. Don’t you dare give up on those people stuck in Essetir.”

Merlin covered his hand and pulled it closer, pressing the ghost of a kiss against the palm and murmuring, “When did you get so confident and determined?”

“One of us has to be.” Arthur searched his face for a long moment. His conviction strengthened as he looked at the man he loved so much. His voice softened as he leaned closer, murmuring, “One of us has to be stronger when the other weakens. Isn’t that how marriages are meant to work?”

“Is that what this relationship between us is? Or is that what you want for us in the future?” Merlin smiled up at Arthur, the expression soft and uncertain and more than a little hopeful. It was so much better than that look of utter defeat he’d worn a moment ago. It made his heart beat faster. Merlin poked his middle. “Well?”

“Both? Both options are good.” His chest swelled with affection when that hopeful smile broadened into something brighter, something laden with so much unrestrained happiness. Merlin pressed another ghost of a kiss against his palm and then rose from his chair, shifting around until Arthur was trapped between the writing desk and his benevolent master. Not that he was complaining, of course. His mouth curled in a slow smile as his fingers curled around the soft red doublet that made the man he loved look so trim. “Had I known mentioning marriage would cheer you up, I’d have done it a lot sooner,” drawled Arthur, allowing his smile to morph into an amused smirk that drove his master wild. “Do you want to discuss garlands now or colour schemes?”

Merlin snorted in amusement and buried his face against his shoulder, soft raven hair tickling his chin. Arthur reached back to brush aside the numerous scrunched up balls of parchment and hopped onto the writing desk. His thighs parted to welcome Merlin.

“Are you prepared for petitioning tomorrow?”

“No.” Merlin made a face against his shoulder. “I’ve heard two of the nobles are disputing over something stupid. I don’t want to deal with that. I’d rather deal with genuine problems. Why am I left to deal with these things all the time?”

“Because your uncle isn’t interested in helping other people and you are.” Merlin raised his head at the firm note in his voice and the pair stared at one another, a constant loop of knowledge and understanding pulsing back and forth between them. His master swallowed and tried to pull away, but Arthur caught his wrists and tightened his grip a fraction. His voice hardened even as it dropped back down to less than a murmur. “The people of Camelot and Mercia know who the real King is and it isn’t the man wearing the crown.”

“Your words are treasonous.”

“I’ve been walking that treasonous line since the moment I stopped pushing you away, since the moment I first let you touch me. Since the moment I first stood naked in front of you.” His voice gentled then as Merlin glanced at the door on the other side of the royal chamber, worried the sentries would burst in and drag them both to face the King. His heart thumping with gentle understanding, Arthur shifted his hands and cradled his face instead. Merlin swallowed once more. “I wake up walking that line each morning. Treason soaks the ground where I stand and follows me wherever I walk. Neither of us can escape that fact now, you know that.”

“I know, but –”

“But you didn’t want to admit it to yourself.” Arthur pressed his forehead against that noble brow and squeezed his eyes shut as Merlin started trembling against him. “I understand why; you loved your uncle and some part of you loves him even when you can’t bear to look at him. You still love the man that picked you up when you fell as a boy, who encouraged your magic to blossom and laughed at your terrible jokes and protected you from bandits in the forest. _I understand all that_...but I’ve had no choice but to acknowledge what we’re doing, what we’ve been daring to do from the beginning; the truth of what we are to each other. I don’t have a crown to hide behind when word gets out and it _will_ get out. The King wakes up each morning and searches for reasons to execute me.”

“Arthur –”

“I should let you take me to bed.”

“ _Arthur_ –”

“I should let you take me until neither of us are capable of moving, but I haven’t let you because some stupid part of me dares to hope this will last.” It was Arthur who trembled now, his voice quivering, his emotions surging to the surface. His hands slipped into thick raven hair. He pressed the ghost of a kiss against that noble brow, against the bridge of that slender nose and then the tip, and then against the corner of his tempting mouth. Arthur released a shaking breath that made Merlin shiver and clutch at him with callused hands. “That I’ll live long enough to see you become King. That I’ll live long enough to tie the knot with you and then make love in _our_ bed.”

Arthur made no attempt to explain that that sense of hope kept him going, kept him moving, kept him heading toward the future when it would be so much easier to give up and let King Bayard end him now instead of letting that hope bloom brighter just to crash and incinerate on impact – like a shooting star crashing into the earth. That it would be easier to let the executioner swing his axe and cleave his head from his shoulders. His throat grew hot and tight at the thought. His chest ached something fierce.

Merlin pulled back to look at him then and cupped his face now, concern underscoring each inch of his slow search. Something indefinable sparked into being in those eyes. Had he not known better, Arthur might have thought Merlin was reading the contents of his mind. He knew, however, that Merlin would have asked first: his master considered the inner sanctum of a mind sacred. One second melted into another, and another, and Merlin was still searching, searching for something that Arthur couldn’t name in the least. Something seemed to snap into place between them then.

“Come along, Arthur,” said Merlin as he moved past him a moment later, moving toward the chest at the foot of his bed. He crouched and rooted through the chest to find Carnwennan and three of his own baselards. “We’re going training; we’ve let it go for too long since your recovery. I want you to do your best to defeat me.”

“No magic?”

“No magic.” Merlin smiled when he glanced over his shoulder, the expression warm and teasing. He straightened and turned with both blades in hand. “We both know you couldn’t win against me otherwise.”

“I don’t know,” Arthur answered immediately, his tone just as teasing, a faint smirk curling his mouth. “I think I could come up with something to help me win.”

“That would be cheating.”

“I prefer calling it a strategic advantage.”

A warm burst of laughter escaped his master, who swept past him as a blinding grin bloomed across his face. It crinkled his eyes in that manner that made Arthur falter, made his breath catch in his throat and made him stumble over his own feet when following after Merlin. Not that he would admit that Merlin had that effect upon him aloud. Not that Merlin wasn’t aware anyway, the perceptive bastard. Merlin knew just how to make him weak at the knees. Arthur was certain his master had been born knowing how to get under his skin. But he pushed that thought aside as he followed Merlin through corridor after corridor and then out into the sunshine.

Training went more than well.

Merlin worked him until he was aching, until his skin started glistening, until his chest started heaving with exertion. Arthur grew so hot that he had to take a moment to rip his tunic off and toss it on the grass before fixing his grip, circling, his gaze sharp as Merlin circled opposite him. He’d been uncertain about removing his tunic at first...but he’d been encouraged gently, Merlin taking his own off in one quick sweep, bearing his own lash marks to the world at large and giving him a warm smile. Arthur had taken his own tunic off then. Now, he and Merlin clashed and danced away, over and over, the pair slick with sweat and flushed with energy, a different sort of hunger brewing between them. His master was a slip of a thing compared to Arthur, but he was quick on his feet and fierce and clever, his hands a whirlwind of motion that won him ground again and again as Arthur danced back to avoid swipes that he couldn’t block fast enough. He was too focused on the silent battle of will and the loud clash of steel to have Merlin distract him with that muscled torso on display, or those nipples that hardened into peaks as soon as the cool late summer breeze threatening to become an autumn gale rippled past them. Distantly, he knew his own had hardened as well.

Neither of them dared to tackle the other: it was too dangerous to do so while wielding two lethal blades each. One wrong calculation could earn disastrous results.

Arthur and Merlin kept going until one baselard slipped from his grasp, tumbling to the grass below, his muscles too tired and sore to hold on for much longer. Carnwennan followed suit a moment later.

“Sorry,” panted Arthur, massaging the tension out of his leading wrist with fingers that ached almost as much. He frowned down at the grass and wondered whether that weakness in his muscles and bones would affect him forever, or if he could work through it until he was a fluid machine that wouldn’t stop until he wanted to – until not even the lingering injuries from King Bayard could thwart him. “I’m not sure I can keep going.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Merlin waved a dismissive hand and crossed over to the bench nearby, setting down his blades and reaching for a towel. He tossed it at him. Arthur fumbled to catch it. Merlin picked up another for himself and ran it over his face before running it over his torso, soaking up the sweat that glistened in the cool and vibrant sunshine. He gave Arthur a tired but proud smile. “Training sessions are about finding your limits and pushing through them when you can. Then you find new limits. You’ve pushed through four limits since I first started training you. You’re doing much better than I ever did as a boy; it is much harder to pick up a skill as an adult. You need to give yourself more credit for a job well done.”

Arthur swallowed the urge to grin like an idiot. Receiving praise often made him feel like a euphoric fool. It had ever since he was a boy, fumbling with his writing, his tongue poking out in concentration as Tom peeked over his shoulder, his low and warm voice telling him how much better Arthur was doing and how proud Tom was of him.

Even so, those early years had been some of the most frustrating times he’d ever experienced. He’d lost count of how often Tom had to wrestle the quill out of his hand whenever Arthur grew obsessed with writing, with spending hour after hour practicing, his forehead furrowed as he struggled to make his writing better, better, better. But his writing never improved that much. He’d lost count of how often the stress of failing made his chest tighten until his vision started spotting, until he stopped breathing, and Tom had to calm him down yet again.

Using numbers had been so much easier, his mind quicker, the calculations whirring through his head while his elder brother struggled with them – Elyan surpassed him with writing, his penmanship an elegant flowing script that swept across parchment and had Arthur burning with inadequacy, with anger and jealousy. Gwen had cuffed him across the head when he started scowling, saying, “We all need talents – you can’t keep them all to yourself! Wouldn’t the world be boring, if we were all the same?”

Voice low and sharp, he’d been quick with his reply, snapping, “No. I’d like to be the same as someone else for once. Why do I have to be different? Why can’t I be someone like you or Jeffrey?”

“Why would you even want to be like him?” Gwen had made a face across the table at Arthur, her expression laced with anger and disgust at the mere thought. “People like him are pure evil.”

“People still like Jeffrey,” Arthur had grumbled in return. His mouth had twisted with anger as he’d hopped down from his chair, his toes having struggled to touch the floor a moment earlier, Arthur having had to sit almost at the edge of the seat just to reach the table. He’d been small for his age at the time – just eight summers old and angry, resentful and so damned confused whenever he let himself dwell on how people treated him outside the house. He’d scrunched yet another sheet of parchment marred with his miserable attempt at writing and had stomped over to throw it in the fire. Frustration had twisted his insides as he’d watched the flames lick at the parchment until nothing remained but embers.

“I’d rather be disliked than evil.”

“Easy for you to say,” Arthur had bitten out through a clenched jaw, not quite able to look at her as he turned from the fire. His hands had curled into fists. His shoulders had ached with tension. He’d avoided looking at his brother, who’d glanced his way, expression soft with understanding as Arthur had struggled with the surge of emotions boiling through his veins. He’d shaken with the strength of that surging emotion. “There isn’t a person in the whole of Camelot that doesn’t like you. You’re...you’re...all... _nice_...and _pretty_ , and people _love_ you.”

“I haven’t even met the whole of Camelot. You haven’t either, for that matter. Don’t act like no one loves you.” Gwen had pointed at him with her own quill. Her unhappiness had radiated off her in thick waves that threatened to choke him. “You know how much we love you. Gaius loves you. Why aren’t we good enough for you? What makes all those other people so special? What makes them so much more important to you than us? Why can’t we just love each other and leave all those other people live in their own separate world of hate?”

Arthur hadn’t answered. He’d kicked the table instead and stomped into the room he’d shared with them. He’d slammed the door, wincing, glancing at the old wood when the door rattled in its frame. He’d thrown himself on the bed he’d shared with his elder sibling when the door remained in place. Naturally, he hadn’t been left alone for long, his brother earning a growl when the door swung open a moment later.

“Arthur, you aren’t an animal. Don’t growl at me.” Elyan had been unimpressed when he’d stuck out his tongue and buried his face in the threadbare pillow, his frustrated expression crumpling, his hands fisting the rough bedclothes. His brother had swatted him until he’d shoved over, squashing himself up against the wall to make room for him. He’d felt Elyan looking down at him. “You know, snapping at Gwen won’t make you feel better about the people in town. I know you’re hurting, but she has a point: you should be you and no one else. No one else has the power to be you. I wouldn’t want someone else to be our brother.”

He’d sniffled and peeked out at his brother, whispering, “You swear?”

“I swear.” Elyan had raised his hand and pressed it right over his heart in a solemn vow, his mouth curling in a small smile as Arthur sat up, rubbing his face with the back of his hand. He’d spread his arms in welcome then. Arthur had squashed him with a tight embrace before he could utter another thing, almost toppling his brother off the narrow bed in the process. His brother had laughed and squashed him in return. Then he’d tucked his chin over his hair, murmuring, “You’ll be our brother forever, Arthur, no matter what happens in the future. The people that love you would fight a thousand armies with their bare hands to protect you. You’ll never be alone.”

Now, approaching two decades later, Arthur wondered whether his brother had been right all along as he looked at his master, the man who’d stood against the King for Arthur – not just this year, but during the previous year when he’d taken that whipping for him. He wondered even as he watched Merlin start grinning, warm eyes crinkling, his handsome face still flushed from exertion. That grin was infectious. Arthur looked away, his heart hammering for more reasons than just sparring; his chest tightened when Merlin came closer, chuckling, holding out the wineskin he’d just taken several mouthfuls from. His master slipped closer than advisable and Arthur swallowed at the surge of that overwhelming heat that enveloped his own blazing inferno. His eyes fluttered closed as Merlin leaned into his ear, breathing, “I bet I know what you’re thinking.”

Laughing, Arthur covered that stupid face with one hand and shoved him away, his mouth quirking in a grin as Merlin stumbled back a step. Merlin shoved him back then. It became a battle of shoving, and then Merlin hooked a boot around an ankle and floored Arthur, only to curse when Arthur dragged him down as well. Powerful magic surged around them protectively, keeping them safe from the blades strewn across the grass as the pair scuffled and rolled and battled for dominance while laughing, cursing, snarling, neither of them willing to concede defeat until weariness had them both panting. Merlin stared down at him for a moment that seemed to stretch forever, rough hands braced against the grass on either side of Arthur, whose gazed flicked toward the castle.

“You don’t need to worry; no one can see us right now.”

“I’m not worried.” Arthur gave him a pointed look. He pushed at the muscular chest in front of him and ignored the urge to haul Merlin closer, to lose himself in that scarred skin. “But disappearing without a trace doesn’t scream innocence. You should get off me before someone passes and notices the indent in the grass.”

Nodding, Merlin started to back away, donning a teasing smile even as he took the brief chance to whisper, “You know, knowing that talk of petitions ends with having you beneath me almost makes me excited for tomorrow.”

Almost choking on a burst of surprised laughter, Arthur ripped up a handful of grass and rubbed it into that stupid face before letting Merlin pull him to his feet. The pair horsed around as Arthur and Merlin gathered their tunics and blades and other strewn possessions into their arms. Together, the pair made their way back to the castle.


	26. Chapter Twenty-Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to everyone still reading/commenting/leaving Kudos for this fic. I appreciate it all!
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think about this chapter!

Sunset arrived to find Arthur in his usual position: standing behind his master. The throne separating them symbolized the power waiting to transfer from uncle to nephew; it represented the numerous barriers that kept him from achieving freedom. Merlin was dressed in some of his finest clothes and his coronet rested upon his brow, gleaming in the fading glow sprawling across the vast chamber, the hue fetching against his pale complexion and dark locks. It made his blue eyes seem twice as vibrant. Arthur refrained from looking at his master, choosing instead to gaze across the chamber, knowing one glance would be enough to reveal the longing growing within him. So much longing – to be alone with his master; to be safe within the royal chamber; to sprawl across his bed with his head resting upon a welcoming lap and a ball of fur curled up against his middle.

Merlin had listened to petitions all day, apart from when he was dining; some petitions were from the various nobles disputing with each other, but most were genuine pleas from the common people that served him and that he served in return. He’d listened to each plea with a patient ear, a frown of concentration furrowing his brow, but Arthur could feel the waves of weariness exuding from him growing stronger as the sun sank across the sky, heading towards its own peaceful slumber below the horizon. Merlin was exhausted. His master, however, never let it become obvious as he listened to yet another petition – Merlin had far too much respect for the people of Camelot to let his weariness prevent him from listening to them and helping them where he could.

He started finishing up after that last petitioner, a single command from him sending the chamberlain scrambling, hastening to lead the last citizen from the throne room and to receive financial aid from the treasury; a scythe and sickle had been damaged and needed to be repaired for the harvesting, but the farmer was short a few coins. Merlin was more than willing to cover the difference.

Having just announced the end of petitioning, his master was about to rise from the throne when a muffled plea breached the thick door, and Merlin threw a glance over his shoulder. Arthur hastened to follow the silent command and crossed the chamber, grunting as he opened the door, frowning when the two sentries and a third older man toppled into the throne room and sprawled at his feet with a loud thump and a crash of chainmail against stone. The third fellow, a man with a haggard face and limp brown hair, looked up at him at once and then past him to see Merlin still seated on the throne – and a wave of the purest hope washed across his face. The sentries tightened their grip on him when the man tried to scramble to his feet and Merlin rose abruptly, snapping, “There is no need to treat that man like a criminal for needing an audience with me. Release him at once!”

The man gave the sentries a triumphant glare and rose to his feet once he’d been freed from their grasp, glaring until the pair retreated and Arthur pushed the door closed before ushering the man toward Merlin and the throne behind him. He ran a critical eye over the man and noticed the clothes hanging lose over skin stretching tight across bone.

His stomach twisted with sinking realisation and Arthur glanced at his master, noticing the same spark of realisation igniting within Merlin. Both of them watched the nameless man ease himself down onto his knees and bow, back curving, forehead pressing against the cooling stone as the light faded outside at last. His fingers looked far too thin as those hands braced against the floor. Arthur and Merlin shared another discomfited glance before a single commanding gesture had Arthur stepping forward and gently, so gently, urging the man to his feet and informing him that such an extreme bow wasn’t necessary in the united realms of Camelot and Mercia.

“You’re from Essetir,” Merlin said quietly, his eyes igniting with magic and illuminating the room as countless torches burst into vibrant flames. “You’ve travelled a fair distance to speak with me. It must be important.”

“Very, Your Highness.” The man wrung his hands and glanced at the various courtiers assembled nearby, having stood witness to the proceedings throughout the day – no doubt almost as exhausted as Merlin from having to stand for so long. He looked back at Merlin and then down at the floor, respectful and far too reverent to be described. “I know you wanted to end your day; I’m sorry for inconveniencing you.”

“You have no reason to apologise. Your needs are as important as mine.” Merlin let his power surge and a chair materialised within reach of the foreign visitor. It landed with a jarring thud and the man startled violently, jumping several feet with fright. Merlin apologised gently, gesturing toward the chair, and a sad expression rippled across his features as the man sat down and stammered his gratitude as though he weren’t accustomed to such gentle consideration from a nobleman. “May I ask your name? What part of Essetir do you come from?”

“Martin Fletcher and I’m from Ealdor, Sire.”

Arthur stiffened behind the petitioner, whose name he recognised in an instant: he was the man that saved Lady Hunith from sharing the same gruesome fate as Balinor; the man who saved Merlin before he’d even been born. He glanced down at the seated figure before flicking his attention up, up, up, watching his master, who failed to recognise the man himself. Ealdor, however, was a name now renowned throughout the united realms of Camelot and Mercia for being the birthplace of Merlin Bayard. Arthur knew then that Lady Hunith had never told Merlin what happened that night – suspected that she’d never opened up about the events of that night until Arthur came along, apart from the kind man that loved and supported her now.

“How can I help?” Merlin spoke gently, his voice warm and soft and welcoming, his attention never once leaving the man seated before him. “Mother went to Ealdor weeks ago and claimed your village rejected our offer of refuge upon her return. Is that why you’ve come? Have your people changed their minds? Our borders remain open to your village.”

Martin looked down at his lap and clasped his hands together, his grip tight enough to have his tendons straining against that too-tight skin. It made Arthur ache to gather them between his own and massage them until the strain went away, until Martin knew another kindness that he didn’t have to plead for. It made him want to lead the man down into the lower town and into the house – a bowl of broth and a warm bed wouldn’t be out of the question in the least.

“We don’t need that kind of help right now, Your Highness; a few of the older generation go without now and then to ensure the younger generations are fed enough...but our problem _is_ related to the curse plaguing Essetir.” Martin looked up then and implored Merlin with his haunted stare. “Bandits came and claimed our village for their own some years ago. We tried to beseech the King, but he made no attempt to help, and we’ve had to deal with these men since. Year after year, Kanen and his men have demanded that we give them a large portion of our harvest to keep them...more amiable.” His hands started to wring each other all over again and it almost concealed the faint tremor. His voice cracked. “But this year...we have no fresh crops to give them in return for being left alone for another year. Kanen said he’d start taking people instead to compensate his loss and I knew...I knew...I _knew_ that he meant it and I knew that I had to get help from someone.” His voice cracked even further and then the ugliest sob escaped Martin before tears began spilling, forcing him to look back down at his lap in order to conceal how his face crumpled with so much stress and pain and grief. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Arthur whipped his head up to look at his master, his heart clenching, only to see a blank expression slide over familiar features. Fear gripped his spine at the sight. Surely, it wasn’t possible for Merlin to refuse – not when he was the kindest and warmest of all the heirs and monarchs that he’d met since his appointment as manservant to the Crown Prince of Camelot and Mercia.

“I can’t.” Merlin spoke gently, but there was a firm note underscoring his refusal. His hands gripped the arms of the throne like vices. His knuckles turned a whiter shade of pale compared to the rest of him. “I can’t send men in to help without official invite from King Cenred. To do otherwise would incur his wrath and Essetir can’t afford a feud with the united realms – not with the curse ongoing. You have our sincerest apologies. My manservant will take you to see our Court Physician now, where you’ll be cared for under his expertise until he sees fit to relinquish you. Then you can return to your village or you can stay; that choice is yours to make. Let me know what you decide and I’ll make whatever arrangements I can.”

Merlin waved an authoritative hand and Arthur, his blood thundering, stared up at his master in pained disbelief. His heart pounded in his chest. He couldn’t even find the strength to move until the courtiers started whispering amongst each other, prompting Arthur, prompting him to help Martin out of the chair and out of the throne room. Nausea churned his stomach. He couldn’t believe what he’d heard spoken in the throne room. He couldn’t believe that Merlin would refuse to help someone in such genuine need. His vision blurred at the thought. Blinking rapidly, Arthur forced his vision clear, and looked at the weakened man shuffling alongside him as Arthur guided him through the castle. Martin was shaking, his tight skin paling, but his eyes were glittering with tears still to be shed. Arthur wasn’t surprised. He wasn’t far from weeping himself and he wouldn’t even be affected when Kanen and his bandits sacked Ealdor, abducting weakened people that wouldn’t be able to defend themselves against such an onslaught.

Just the thought was horrific.

Arthur could imagine how he’d feel were his own loved ones trapped in such a situation with ease. He could imagine the immense helplessness and the surge of anger that must have been burning through Martin when Merlin declined his request for martial aid against Kanen. Arthur would have shouted and raged and threatened to do harm had some nobleman condemned Gwen and Tom and Elyan to such a cruel fate just for the sake of peace between two nations – what good was peace when innocent people were being carried off and sold and raped and abused until all sense of that peace and happiness was eradicated from their veins.

Unadulterated rage boiled through him at the thought.

But he shoved that blazing rage aside and trapped it in a dungeon cell at the back of his mind. Now was not the time to explode: Martin needed seeing to and it was the least Arthur could do after his master had refused his plea. He’d speak with Merlin later, and demand an answer, an explanation for how he could have done what he did. Arthur focused upon Martin instead and watched him closely, fearing he might fall down with hunger the moment Arthur looked away, but the pair made it to Gaius’ chamber without incident. He rapped upon the door and barrelled inside with a shuffling Martin in tow, haunted eyes flicking around the room curiously, hands twitching something fierce. His mouth tightened at the sight. Arthur wondered how often the man had been beaten in that village – beaten for speaking his mind or daring to refuse the enforced tithe that Kanen set in place. He marvelled at how strong Martin must have been to survive such treatment for so long, how strong and determined he must have been to cover the vast distance stretching between Ealdor and Camelot when Martin looked as though he hadn’t eaten a decent meal in quite a while.

Frowning, Gaius looked up from his work at the intrusion and then spotted the starving man beside Arthur, whose gait grew more uneven as Martin came to the gradual realisation that he could rest soon. That he could eat soon. Martin wavered beside him and started swaying, and Arthur caught him as his weakened knees buckled under him. Arthur swept him up and carried him the rest of the way, settling him down upon the worktable as Gaius rose from his stool as fast as he could. He backed away as Gaius started working, and retreated to the door, poking his head out to ask one of the guards to fetch Lady Hunith. He figured a kind and familiar face would do the poor man some good. Then he turned and settled upon the nearest available stool and watched Gaius work. He watched him check his heart rate and his breathing, his reflexes and the girth of his muscles at present compared to the stretch marks showing on his skin.

Gaius muttered to himself all the while.

It was unnerving, all the muttering and the frowning, and Arthur shifted upon his stool and cast a look around for something else to keep his head occupied – something other than the rage burning at the back of his head or the nausea churning his stomach.

Arthur rose and selected one of the numerous botanical texts from one of the shelves nearby, the tome heavy, a welcome distraction as he settled back onto the stool. He studied the medicinal properties of various plants as one second faded into another, his reading undisturbed until Lady Hunith arrived. She darted across the chamber and almost fell upon Martin. Arthur glanced up for a moment and then continued reading, his heart twisting; he felt as though he stood witness to something far too private. His hands tightened around the tome as Lady Hunith and Martin spoke quietly, the one whispering in a soothing manner and the other slurring and weeping with more than exhaustion. Neither of them asked him to leave. So he read and he read and he read as Lady Hunith helped Martin sit up, supported him as Gaius fed him an infusion of crushed vital minerals in a weak broth that Martin tried to inhale as soon as he saw it.

Arthur, however, could still discern what was happening through his peripheral vision: Gaius forced Martin to slow down and take one sip after another, each one slow and painstaking, his shrewd eyes fastened upon the weakened man all the while. It was painful to witness such endless hunger, such longing, such need that had to be controlled even now when presented with warm food. It was painful to witness him savour each swallow, as if Martin believed he’d never get the chance to taste chicken broth again. It made Arthur want to march across the lands dividing Camelot from the Essetian capital and challenge King Cenred to a duel he’d never win. Arthur hoped his master was wrong. He hoped that King Cenred might redeem himself in the end and save his defenceless people in the process. But hope had never felt so fragile before – not even when he was hoping for his own improbable future.

His future with Merlin...

His Merlin...

The same man that condemned an entire village with just a few short words...

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut against the pain that seared through his chest at the thought. It was unbearable. He dropped the tome and fled Gaius’ chamber, his stomach churning, his face draining of colour. One of the guards managed to ask whether he was alright before Arthur convulsed and doubled over, vomit burning up his throat and out his mouth and splashing across a pair of boots before the nearest guard could recoil. His stomach churned further at the sight. Arthur stumbled away, and dropped to the stone floor, the impact jarring and his head ringing; the acidic tang of vomit burned in his mouth and in his nose. His vision blurred. He choked back a shameful noise that made the second guard – one of the two that witnessed the King driving him up against the wall and wrapping his hand around his throat – murmur his name and help him up from the floor, his arms bracing, supporting his weight as Arthur went weak as water.

Arthur caught a brief glimpse of a black tattoo beneath the sleeve of his hauberk when the chainmail rode up: three connected swirling lines stared back at him for a single instant before disappearing, the sleeve sliding back down as the guard ushered him down the corridor. He looked askance at the guard helping him as the other, grimacing, went to summon a maid to take care of the mess Arthur had made a moment ago. His heart jumped into his throat as the guard glanced his way, a spark of knowledge flickering between them before his expression went blank.

Neither man spoke as the guard escorted him through corridor after corridor, his grip easing when Arthur started walking under his own power. But concern continued to radiate from the guard in thick waves as the pair at last reached the royal chamber, where he knocked upon the door before entering, permitted when Merlin called out the tired command. Arthur resisted the hand now curled around his upper arm. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t face Merlin now. He couldn’t bear to see the handsome face that condemned those innocent people for the sake of peace with a nation crumbling from within. And then he was in the royal chamber, and Merlin looked up at Arthur, looked up at him from where he’d slumped across the writing desk. Merlin bolted out of his chair at the sight of him and then wavered before ordering the guard to get out. His master stared at Arthur, eyes wide with concern and no small amount of uncertainty, the apple in his throat bobbing.

“Arthur –”

“Don’t.” The order scorched its way out like fire. It burned harder than even the tang of vomit still lingering, still burning his tongue and staining his doublet. Blue – because he’d been so proud to serve Merlin. He’d been so proud to share that improbable future with him. Arthur shook his head and ignored the faint ringing, the swirling, swallowing hard against the urge to vomit again. He headed for the antechamber, his hands shaking, his heart pounding. “I can’t listen to this right now. I can’t. I’m not able.”

“ _Arthur_ –”

“Don’t touch me!” The harsh words escaped on a snarl as Arthur wrenched his wrist free from that familiar grasp; the forceful movement stung something fierce and not just in his damned wrist. He blinked his vision clear to see a familiar mouth trembling, familiar eyes watering, familiar cheeks draining of yet more colour. Pain and rage consumed his heart in an instant and Arthur tore his gaze away, croaking, “I can’t even bear to look at you right now. Just...just leave me alone.”

“You don’t understand –”

“I understand enough!”

Arthur slipped into the antechamber and let the door close quietly, the sound still too loud and jarring, sending his heart racing. His throat constricted. His chest tightened until his lungs started screaming and Arthur slid down the length of the door, his hands shaking, black spots blooming across his vision. His head thumped hard against the wood behind him. He knew nothing more until he emerged from the fog of unconsciousness to find himself curled up, his head aching, his temple pressing against the cool stone floor; his mouth felt as though some furred animal had crawled in and started rotting. Grimacing, he heaved himself up and moved over to the ewer, pouring himself a deep goblet and filling the basin. It took some time to wash out his mouth and clean his face. Arthur still felt disgusting. His hand wrapped around the crystal hanging from his neck. The magic felt tentative – as though even the magic knew he and Merlin weren’t on good terms right now – but that power surged up around him when his will sharpened and it erased the vomit staining his doublet and tainting his breath. He dropped the crystal as soon as he could.

Arthur had no idea how much time had passed.

Breathing calm and slow now, Arthur crossed the antechamber and looked out the window; the courtyard was quiet and still below, nothing moving in the darkness. It was quite late. It might even be late enough for King Bayard to be asleep, peaceful in his slumber, smiling as he dreamed of torturing him to death. Arthur turned away from the window; memories from earlier that night flickered through him and ignited yet another blazing inferno. His hands fisting, Arthur ignored the crescents of pain that sparked across his palms and looked at the door leading into the royal chamber, where Merlin must be sleeping, where he would dream and dream until morning arrived. His mouth twisted at the thought. He wondered then whether it had never been a case of his master just not noticing, but not _wanting_ to notice how the King looked at Arthur, how he spoke to him and tried to goad him into actions that would earn him a trip to the executioner.

Who could have known it wouldn’t be the King, but his nephew that goaded Arthur into action in the end. Resolve hardened inside him. If Merlin refused to help those defenceless people...then Arthur would have to take matters into his own hands. He had to do what he thought was right and damn the consequences.

Swallowing, Arthur started stripping down to nothing but the crystal. He pulled his blackest clothes from the wardrobe and selected his most common travelling cloak.

Dressed now, Arthur slipped into the royal chamber, his black cloak a whisper in his wake. He made no sound as he crossed the stone floor, eyes fastened upon the man slumbering, wrapped up to his chin in blankets and his face troubled in his sleep. His heart ached at the sight of Merlin. But his spine straightened with determination despite that ache. Crouching quietly, Arthur eased the chest at the foot of the bed open and drew his ancestral blade and scabbard from the collection of weapons. It took less than a moment to secure Carnwennan to his belt. He slid the quiver of bolts free carefully, his gaze sliding up the length of his master, ensuring that Merlin never woke to find him stealing from him. It took some careful manoeuvring to strap the quiver across his back and his heart almost exploded within his chest when a bolt almost clattered to the stone floor, his hand darting out to snatch the damned thing from the air, his throat tight with fear. Swallowing to dislodge that burning lump of fear, Arthur kept going, slipping the crossbow free now with much care.

He had no idea how to use a crossbow, but he could remember Sir Tor explaining that using a crossbow just meant depending on calculations.

Arthur smirked in the darkness.

He wasn’t worried about the crossbow; he’d figure out the mechanics soon enough and he’d become an expert in no time at all. He and numbers were close friends. He closed the chest with care and flicked his attention to the collection of swords mounted on the wall. His mouth twisted. Taking a sword from there would be too noticeable.

Arthur unfolded from his crouch and tightened his grip around the crossbow, taking a silent step away, and his gaze sliding over Merlin for a moment before he turned to face the window. He closed the distance silently, each move nothing but a ghost of his usual self. His gaze slid up and around as Arthur took note of everything; his mind whirring and calculating quickly, figures emerging based on time and distance and speed.

His heart racing, Arthur opened the window silently, his movements quick and confident as he heaved himself up and over the windowsill. He plummeted through the darkness with a hand wrapped tight around his crystal. A flare of magic arrested his descent an instant before he smacked into the cobblestones and deposited him gently, and then Arthur was rolling, disappearing under the cart resting nearby, the shadows swallowing him before the guards overhead could turn and spot him. That was when what he was doing hit him for the first time. Arthur pressed his forehead against the cobblestones and forced his breathing to slow, forced his chest to stop heaving, forced himself to calm down. Now wasn’t the time to fall to pieces over his own reckless courage – not when so much ground separated him from that defenceless village.

Arthur shuffled until he could peek out from beneath the cart.

New calculations started whirring through his head.

Arthur rolled out at the most opportune moment and scrambled to his feet. His cloak whispered behind him as he closed the distance between himself and the nearest archway, darting into the welcoming shadow, the crossbow a weight against his chest as he waited through another round of measured pacing. He used various points of shadow to conceal himself before lunging through the gates and out into the town. The tightness in his chest eased the moment he couldn’t feel the looming presence of the patrolling guardsmen over his shoulder. His spine relaxed a fraction. Arthur kept the crossbow concealed beneath the folds of his cloak as he swept through the silent town. It swirled around him as he crept into the forge.

He knew the forge better than the back of his hand and needed no burning candle to find his way, needed nothing to help him locate the chest of finished blades. It was locked now, after the unexpected theft when he was young, but Arthur knew where the key was hidden at night.

Tom was devastated after that theft – the most exquisite blade he’d ever forged had been stolen that night. Just that blade – out of a sea of blades and other weaponry, tools and even a pot filled to bursting with coins. The few things Tom could remember about the thief were a pair of pointed ears and eyes glowing silver, a description that now brought the High Queen of the Fae to mind. Arthur shook his head at the thought. It was ridiculous. He was certain Arianrhod had more important things to do than steal swords from unwitting mortal blacksmiths. Having located the key, Arthur crouched in front of the chest and turned the locking mechanism gently, his heart pounding in his chest when the click echoed through the darkness.

“What are you doing?”

Arthur almost died as he flailed around and fell on his backside. His heart attempted to punch a hole through his ribs as Gwen loomed out of the shadow, arms folded across her chest and an eyebrow arched expectantly, unimpressed with his startled reaction.

“Gwen!” Arthur stared up at his adoptive sister, swallowing the urge to jump into the nearest river to avoid her rising temper; Gwen could scare even a hardened warrior into urinating in his trousers when that rare temper made an appearance. He aimed an awkward smile at her. “What are you doing here? I thought you were volunteering at the Mercian border?”

“Lancelot and I came home earlier this evening,” Gwen answered pointedly, her mouth forming a moue of displeasure. She pointed at him. Her eyes sparked with anger and she reiterated her question pointedly, each word punctuated with a hiss. “What on earth are you doing? Start talking, Arthur, and don’t you dare think you can charm your way out of this!”

“You think I’m charming?”

“Arthur!”

“Honestly, you should just go up to bed. It’ll be safer to be asleep,” Arthur explained gently, his heart thumping as Gwen crouched down in front of him and picked up the crossbow, running an educated and knowledgeable gaze along the mechanisms that went into its creation. “Pretend you haven’t seen me here.”

“You know I can’t do that. We’re a family, Arthur; sometimes that means being honest or working together even when the danger seems too much to handle.” Gwen slid her gaze over to him. “Elyan warned me you’d do something stupid...but I never imagined it would be something like this. What happened up at the castle? I know you wouldn’t do something like this without good reason.”

So Arthur told her, his voice hushed and uncertain. Gwen listened closely, her eyes glistening in the darkness. He stood witness to the resolve hardening inside her, stood witness to the flames of righteous anger that sparked through her, and almost wanted to protest when she reached past him to open the chest of forged weapons.

Gwen withdrew a sheathed blade from the collection and held it out to him without a word. Swallowing, Arthur accepted the offered blade and rose from the floor, his throat hot and tight with fearful surprise as Gwen selected another sword for herself and unfolded from her crouch. Then she handed the crossbow to him.

“Guinevere...I can’t ask you to come with me.”

“You’re not asking,” answered Gwen simply, strapping the blade to the belt slung across her hips. She tossed her thick raven braid over her shoulder and aimed a hard look at him. “I’m telling. You ready to go?”

Arthur strapped the blade to his belt and nodded seriously, his determination and resolve returning in a rush as Gwen donned her coat. Her fingers weren’t even trembling as Gwen fastened the coat along the front and the dark fur complimented her warm skin tones.

“Are you sure? You don’t have a pack with you. What about food?”

“I was going to...ah...hunt.” Arthur waved the crossbow, smiling, his cheeks flaming in the darkness. Honestly, he hadn’t even thought that far ahead. He’d been too focused on doing the right thing at the time to think about how to survive the trek to close the distance between Camelot and Ealdor without robbing food from the kitchens. “Plus...berries are delicious.”

Gwen snorted in horrified amusement before saying, “And water?”

“Um...”

“You’re hopeless.”

“I resent that.” Arthur shoved her, his expression darkening, but she shoved him right back a heartbeat later. Gwen darted out of reach before Arthur could shove her for the second time and slipped into the main house on silent feet. He listened out for the slightest sound overhead...but nothing echoed in the darkness in the few minutes it took for Gwen to return with a wineskin full of water and a loaf of bread. Arthur waved at the wineskin with the crossbow and his smile deepened. “Fortunately, I have you to think of the practical things whenever I forget.”

“How does His Highness handle having such a goose around all the time?”

“I don’t want to talk about him.” His mouth twisted with anger. “Can’t we just go?”

“Arthur,” Gwen said gently, looking askance at him as she shoved the wineskin and bread into a burlap sack that she’d also robbed from the house. “His Highness has to make difficult decisions and will have to make even more when he becomes King. I’m not excusing what he did...but...you need to look at it from his perspective. He has to balance what he thinks is right with what he has the power to do...and sometimes that doesn’t end well for other people. It doesn’t mean His Highness wanted to make those decisions. Maybe this choice is hurting him more than it hurts you.”

“We are _not_ talking about this now,” Arthur snapped sharply, quietly, his shoulders tensing until pain shot down the length of his spine. “We need to go before someone catches us.”

Gwen raised her hands in surrender and then beckoned for him to get going, to lead the way, since he was the one that had read enough maps over the years to have the sprawling lands of Camelot memorised. Arthur even knew the general location of Ealdor. He wouldn’t let his adoptive sister down. He and Gwen slipped out into the darkness and slipped away, slinking through the shadows that sprawled across the lower town.

The two of them were almost to the edge when a large man stepped out of an alleyway, voice laced with overwhelming triumph and dark humour, “Where do you think you’re going?”


	27. Chapter Twenty-Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't kill me. 
> 
> But do let me know what you think.

Arthur went as pale as snow at the sight of Jeffrey, that behemoth of a man with a powerful vendetta against him. He took an immediate step back as Gwen tensed beside him. His hand went to the hilt of Carnwennan. Gwen grabbed his wrist and squeezed tightly, and Arthur would swear he felt her heart pounding, matching the panicked beat of his own as Jeffrey smirked mockingly, his head tilting to the side.

“Draw that blade and I’ll shout for the guards.”

“You’re going to shout anyway,” answered Arthur, his own voice sharp and tight and quiet despite the panic surging through his veins. It coiled around his spine like a merciless serpent and started contracting, squeezing, threatening to crush him from within. Arthur raised his chin in defiance. His hand tightened around Carnwennan as he prepared to draw her. His head started whirring through the calculations he’d need in order to close the distance between them before his childhood tormentor could bring the wrath of the King down upon him and his adoptive sister, but his resolve faltered when Jeffrey continued to speak.

“I’d rather kill you myself than hand you over.” That mocking smirk stretched almost from lower jaw to ear, growing larger and larger; the expression made him look twice as hideous and aggressive. “Who knows? The King might even reward me for taking your troublesome existence off his hands. It must be a pain to have to come up with a reason to get rid of you.” Jeffrey looked at Gwen then. His gaze sharpened and then slid back to Arthur, darkening, hardening. “Choose to come quietly, and I’ll even pretend I didn’t see your sister with you. She’ll get to keep living.”

Arthur released Carnwennan in an instant.

Swallowing, Arthur glanced at his adoptive sister, who stared back at him in mounting distress. Gwen shook her head minutely, her own hand wrapping around the hilt of her own blade and squeezing until the leather wrapped around the hilt protested against her forceful touch. Arthur ripped his gaze away, and stared at Jeffrey, calculating long and hard before his hand flew up to grip the crystal: a burst of invisible magic flared at his touch and slammed into his childhood tormentor, forcing him into silence before the man could utter a single shout.

Jeffrey crumpled in a heap on the ground.

Gwen gasped at his side.

Arthur never paused long enough to explain what just happened. He seized his adoptive sister, his hand snaring her wrist and pulling, dragging her after him as Arthur bolted across the grass dividing the lower town from the edge of the Darkling Wood. He hadn’t trusted himself to direct the magic to erase the memory, to eradicate the moment in which Jeffrey found Gwen breaking the law, complicit in his crimes. That recollection remained intact. Her one chance now was to get as far from the accursed capital as possible before morning, and find a few defensible locations that the magic in the crystal could conceal long enough to keep them both safe from the King, at least until Arthur and Gwen crossed the distance stretching between Camelot and Ealdor, the distance between certain death and uncertain life.

Arthur stumbled to a stop as soon as he and Gwen disappeared into the Darkling Wood: neither of them could keep crashing through the underbrush without tripping over something or colliding with a low branch. Chest heaving, he reached up and removed the crystal from around his neck. He wound the leather cord around his hand and crushed the crystal against his palm instead: the magic within reacted to his demanding touch immediately, creating a faint sphere of light that illuminated the space around them enough to help them avoid trips and falls and hanging branches. Arthur looked askance at Gwen and offered a strained smile that just earned a deep frown in return.

“You going to explain what happened back there? What happened just now?”

“Magic happened just now. Obviously,” Arthur answered gustily, his chest still heaving, determination driving him onward at a quick and unstoppable pace. Gwen followed after him at once. She needled at him until Arthur continued with a huff. “His Highness siphoned magic into the crystal and gave it to Sir Tor, and then Sir Tor gave it to me last year.”

“And you can use the magic in it?”

“No.” Arthur could feel his cheeks flaming, his embarrassment building. Thinking about the magic contained in the crystal made him remember the morning he woke to find it wrapped around him and thrumming, pulsing, having comforted him while he’d slept – all because he’d slept with his hand wrapped around the crystal. “But the magic likes to help me. It lets me give it direction when I’m in trouble...and sometimes even when I’m not in trouble at all. I think it likes to be used?”

“I’m not sure how you managed to make that last bit sound dirtier than it should...but I’m impressed.” Gwen huffed out a fond laugh. “Obviously, all those visits to the tavern have corrupted your innocent little mind. I suppose His Highness has his hands full with you.”

“Shut up,” Arthur snapped at his sister, almost choking on his tongue upon hearing that remark. His cheeks flamed even brighter, his heart thumping, doing its best to punch a hole through the barrel of his chest. He quickened his pace to make it look like exertion instead of embarrassment. Gwen huffed out another laugh and patted his arm in understanding, her expression gentling, warming in the darkness. Her gentleness just made him remember the fight he’d had with Merlin first and then the disastrous encounter with Jeffrey, who would be quick to inform King Bayard about what Arthur did as soon as he woke up, who would ensure a manhunt would arise come morning. Merlin would no longer have his hands full with him at all.

Three paths were spread out in front of Arthur now: he’d be killed in Ealdor; he’d starve to death before he could ever find sanctuary; or he’d be caught before he crossed the border and dragged back to the capital and executed in front of both King Bayard and the man he still loved despite their earlier argument.

He couldn’t foresee a single favourable outcome. He couldn’t foresee a single future that wouldn’t end in death.

Arthur just hoped he could convince Gwen to leave him and get away, to head south and find refuge in some other nation. He was certain she could disappear into Nemeth and was almost confident that Princess Mithian would help spirit Gwen away, even just to honour her strong friendship with the Crown Prince of Camelot and Mercia. Arthur knew Merlin wrote confidential letters protected with magic to Princess Mithian often – it wouldn’t have surprised him had his master opened up and confessed to the bond growing between himself and Arthur, and the natural ties that emerged and strengthened with such a bond between two people.

But right now, Arthur had to focus on getting Gwen out of Camelot. He could formulate the second part of the plan when he and his adoptive sister were closer to the eastern border, that invisible line dividing Camelot from Essetir. He maintained a quick pace as Arthur barrelled through the Darkling Wood and led Gwen toward Essetir, his mind whirring, calculating how long he and Gwen would have to travel to reach the distant border. It would have taken a day and a half on horseback. Arthur, however, hadn’t dared to steal his favourite horse from the stables. Now, he and Gwen were crossing that distance on foot. He added relevant variables such as rest and hunting and came to an approximate travel-time of a little over three days – a day and a half would be spent heading south-east through the Darkling Wood and then through the Forest of Brechfa. The rest would be spent heading true east across the rolling hills in the province of Ascetir.

Three whole hours passed before the crystal pulsed in his grasp.

Arthur had less than a moment to wrench his adoptive sister back before a storm of wind and lightning exploded into existence right in front of them. The overwhelming surge of magic brought two familiar people with it.

Two eyes blazed with molten magic an instant before Merlin ripped the crossbow from his grasp and tossed it on the forest floor, dragging him forward to crush him in a powerful embrace that made Arthur arch and gasp, that familiar magic diving beneath his skin and surging through him until he knew just how much his vanishing act had affected Merlin. That familiar face buried itself against his neck and dragged in a shaking breath. Two hands cradled his face when his master withdrew, staring at Arthur, expression both relieved and terrified at the same time.

“Arthur,” croaked his master, crushing their foreheads together. His hands tightened as Arthur stared at him in growing bewilderment. Arthur glanced down and observed the plain travelling cloak – not to mention the gleaming hauberk beneath. His heart twisted at the sight and he looked back up, up at his master, who now looked torn between wanting to kiss him and wanting to shout himself hoarse. “Don’t...don’t you _ever_ scare me like that again.”

“How was I supposed to know you’d wake up early,” groused Arthur, taking an immediate step back and pulling himself away, extricating himself from his master before he could do something far too humiliating – like break down and start clinging to him like a heartsick idiot. Arthur squirmed under the weight of that storming stare as that powerful explosion of magic inside him dwindled down to almost nothing, leaving nothing but a warm caress that made him shiver where he stood and fold his arms across his chest. His mouth twisted with resolve. “I was planning to be long gone before breakfast. You weren’t supposed to know until it was too late to stop me.”

“I wasn’t asleep in the first place!” Merlin stared at him harder, the magic at last receding completely. It left him feeling cold and hollow without it. Pale features sharpened with anger. “I waited until it was late enough to slip away, and then went to make sure you were okay, and I found you missing and an open window. I knew at once that you’d gone off to be a reckless idiot. I never even heard you leave! How did you manage to do it all without making a single sound?”

“Turns out I do have _some_ useful skills.” Arthur glared at him before continuing, his voice hot and sharp. “If you weren’t such a damned coward –”

“How dare you?” Merlin shoved him hard enough to send Arthur reeling, stumbling over a tree root and landing on the forest floor. Power vibrated around Merlin in thick waves. His voice cracked. Arthur stared up at Merlin as Gwen edged away, beckoned to a safe distance from the storm brewing between Arthur and his master, joining Lady Hunith under the bough of a tree some distance away, the pair of them tossing nervous glances at Merlin and Arthur. “Did you think it was easy? Did you think it was painless to refuse that plea? To watch that man break down in front of me? To watch the respect and admiration and love you once showed me sputter out of existence when you wouldn’t even give me a damned chance to explain what I was planning to do? You’ve seen just a glimpse of what it means to be in this position. You’ve no idea how difficult it is. Being Prince doesn’t mean I can do whatever I want whenever I want. I can’t work political miracles just because I want to or because a distressed man asked for help!”

“Merlin –”

“I’m not finished yet.” Merlin growled at Arthur, eyes blazing with power all over again. He gestured at the crossbow and sword with an almost violent hand and magic sparked and crackled around him. “Can you imagine what would have happened had you encountered the King dressed like that? Have you a death wish after all? Is that what this is about?” The anger in his expression shattered almost as soon as the words escaped and Merlin looked away, wiping his sudden tears away, his hand shaking, and each movement rough and uncoordinated. Merlin dragged in a shaking breath and stared at Arthur, his hands falling to hang limp at his sides as a thousand different emotions washed across flushed features in rapid succession. “Or do you trust me so little that you thought I’d leave those poor people to suffer? That you thought I’d do nothing to help them?

Arthur swallowed thickly, the apple of his throat bobbing almost audibly. That _was_ what he’d thought back in the antechamber, when he’d made the decision to leave for Ealdor, to fight for those defenceless people. His stomach knotted at the thought that maybe...maybe he’d been wrong to snap at Merlin before disappearing into the antechamber. That maybe he’d reacted too fast and too hard to what he’d heard in the throne room when he should have given Merlin a chance to explain himself.

“I thought you knew me so much better than that. Guess I was wrong.”

Arthur stared up at his master, his heart hammering, that seldom spoken name escaping again on a strangled whisper as he realised just how much of a monumental mistake he’d made. How much his thoughtless actions had cost him: his own life and the safety of his adoptive sister; the sacred trust of his master; and that fragile future that once loomed over the distant horizon. Merlin twitched upon hearing his name whispered like that and then crouched down in front of Arthur, reaching out with an unsure hand that was met with desperation strong enough to startle Merlin. A tentative smile chased the pain away; the sight of that smile almost had Arthur breaking down and confessing, confessing that he’d been seen escaping the lower town. That he’d been seen with an unauthorized weapon. That he wasn’t going to live much longer – no matter what he did next. No matter what excuse Merlin wove in order to save him from the King.

He’d been so stupid.

Had Arthur taken just a single moment to calm himself down and let Merlin talk to him back in the royal chamber...as his master had almost begged him to...he and Gwen wouldn’t even be in this situation now. Gwen was endangered because of him – because he’d jumped to the incorrect conclusion about Merlin and never paused long enough to speak to let the man explain. He’d never paused long enough to think rationally, to consider all the possible variables that should have gone into that political calculation.

This was his fault.

“Fortunately,” Merlin continued after leaning in to press the ghost of a gentle kiss against his hair, causing his vision to start blurring, “I had a word with the King while you were having a tantrum in your room. I mentioned that I intended to leave for the Mercian capital tonight and surprise the steward with an inspection. I told him that I’d teleport instead of riding. He knows I’d never go without you in tow – not after he sentenced you to that unwarranted whipping.”

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut at the admission that Merlin made himself an unwitting accomplice before he’d even hatched his dangerous plan to leave for Ealdor and a tear slipped free to slide down his cheek. His heart ceased beating. He opened his mouth to tell Merlin what had happened in the lower town and then faltered when that familiar magic enveloped him like a comforting lover. It pulled him to his feet in one fluid movement. His eyes snapped back open and Arthur tried again.

His master, however, raised a quick hand to cut him off.

“You can save it for when we finish helping Ealdor; we have more important things to do right now,” Merlin said as he picked up the crossbow, his earlier anger and heartbroken weariness shoved to the side in favour of determination and resolve – a fresh page from the open book of his emotions. He straightened and handed the crossbow to Arthur with a look that suggested more trust than Arthur felt he deserved now, maybe even more trust than he’d ever deserved in his years of service to the Prince of Camelot and Mercia. Arthur blinked his vision clear all over again and shared a strained glance with his adoptive sister. He looked back at his master, swallowing when Merlin wrapped an arm around his middle and hauled him closer, his grip as strong as iron. His hip pressed hard against the hilt of his sword.

It was more than a little uncomfortable.

Merlin cast a sad glance back toward the castle before beckoning to his mother with a quick hand. Lady Hunith closed the distance between them at the silent command and wrapped her arms tight around both men. She bestowed a smile upon Arthur, the expression warm and fond and almost how he imagined his own mother might have looked at him had she lived to see him grow up. Arthur had to look away, his heart breaking, but doing so meant looking at Merlin. His master met his gaze without flinching, those familiar eyes vibrant with power, and his mouth curling in a warm and forgiving smile – the sight of which made a hoarse scream of grief and regret rise up from his chest. Fortunately, it got stuck in his throat and failed to escape him. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead against soft raven hair, drawing in breath after breath of that soothing scent of sweat and something sharp and crisp; something that made him think of the air right after a storm. “No point in bringing you back to the citadel now; the King will expect us to be gone come morning. We’d best get going.”

Merlin held an arm out for Gwen.

She came to him at once and then squeaked as Merlin wrapped that strong arm around her, pulling her in as close as he’d pulled Arthur. Her hand fisted the gleaming hauberk right next to his beneath the travelling cloak. Gwen stared at Arthur, her eyes just about peeking over brown hair swept back in a practical braid. The pair shared an anxious and silent conversation underscored with fear of both the known and the unknown – a conversation that Merlin pretended not to notice as his arms tightened a fraction around them both.

“Hold on tight and don’t let go.” Merlin turned his head and nuzzled against his face for the briefest instant. His heart stuttering, Arthur leaned into the gentle touch immediately, knowing each touch and caress was numbered now, counting down until his imminent demise. It ached deep down in his core when Merlin withdrew that touch. “None of you move a single muscle. I’ve never teleported with such a large group before and I don’t want to make a grievous mistake.”

Arthur swallowed thickly, a small part of him hoping he’d just slip into the otherworld to spare his master from witnessing him die in Ealdor or from witnessing him be executed in Camelot when the King learned the truth from Jeffrey, whose word would be accepted as fact in an instant. Merlin would be able to do nothing; King Bayard trusted and favoured all those who hated Arthur to the core.

He should have trusted Merlin.

He should known Merlin was better than the words he’d spoken in the throne room and to Martin Fletcher, but the thought of those defenceless people suffering had made Arthur almost feral with the need to see justice done. Justice that Merlin hadn’t been able to offer aloud while the court was listening, while it was possible for word to reach the King of Essetir, and Arthur had thrown that political powerlessness in his face like a hard slap. It was shameful and Merlin had deserved better, so much better than how Arthur had treated him as soon as he and Merlin were alone. Arthur should have known better. He should have behaved better and now it was too late to apologise: Merlin would never forgive him once he found out the truth of what waited for him once Ealdor was saved.

Merlin closed his eyes and his pale brow smoothed out as his master slipped down into the source of his power, that raging storm and crashing sea that had to be calmed and coaxed and made serene for the teleportation to work as it should. Arthur let his renewed and strengthened sense of trust wrap around Merlin in a tight embrace. His master released a shaking breath and then beamed an instant before the magic swelled and crested around them like a wave of warm water, enveloping first the group as a whole and then embracing Arthur in particular, soft and gentle and protective.

The transition from one place to another was almost seamless: violent winds flared and several vibrant arcs of lightning danced through the air to announce their arrival to wherever Merlin had set them down.

Blinking, Arthur looked around and spotted several mountains looming out of the darkness to the west. The Forest of Ascetir spread across and around them like a warm deciduous blanket. Hills swathed in grass rolled to the south and south-west...and spreading out to the east: a withered landscape that had his vision blurring, the twisted corpses of trees in the distance more than enough to shatter even the most stalwart heart. Arthur wasn’t stalwart in the least. Just knowing King Cenred had condemned his innocent people to this barren wasteland through his own ignorant actions made him reach out and grasp the nearest hand to ease the violent churning of his stomach.

Merlin squeezed right back and looked askance at Arthur, but said nothing, his expression tightening with understanding as Arthur blinked his vision clear, another tear sliding down his face to disappear beneath the curve of his jaw. No words existed that could alleviate the devastation that spread across the endless land stretching out before them. He released a tremulous breath and took a step and then another, Merlin matching him without question on one side and Gwen doing the same on the other. Lady Hunith flanked the other side of her son without a word. Arthur knew what he felt must be the merest scrap of what she must be feeling, knowing the place that had once been her home had been reduced to less than nothing, less than a pile of rotted bovine carcasses and dust and ramshackle hovels that rose out of that dust like gravestones.

Arthur and the others could only hope their endeavours weren’t too late.

Who knew how long it had taken Martin Fletcher to reach the citadel at the heart of Camelot? Who knew how long he’d rested to conserve his meagre reserves of energy, how long it had taken him to source fresh water and berries that weren’t poisonous? Martin Fletcher wouldn’t have been strong enough to take down large game unaided. He’d accomplished something miraculous in reaching the citadel at all. Arthur just hoped that brave and perilous trek would never prove to be fruitless in the hours to come.

The distance between the village and Arthur and his group dwindled with each long stride taken. Courtesy of his master, a sphere of vibrant light floated ahead of them to illuminate their path and shadows swam around the outer rim of its glowing radius. His gaze pierced the darkness as Arthur remained close to Merlin. He couldn’t bear to step away, knowing these were the last few hours he would ever spend with his master, with the man he still loved so much despite their fight from earlier.

Twang!

Arthur was sprawling across his adoptive sister before he’d even finished registering the soft sound and the shift of shadow, a bowman releasing the taut string, an arrow whirring through the air an instant before Merlin shoved him to the ground with a rough hand. Gwen groaned in pain where he’d flattened her and Lady Hunith was sprawling across the ground on the other side of his master. Arthur looked up to see Merlin stepping forward and raising his hands to direct his power, a wall of impenetrable magic rising up to envelope Arthur and the rest of the group. His floating sphere of light exploded in size to illuminate the entire village and revealed the short bowman crouching on the nearest rooftop, who cursed loudly, diving over the edge and crashing into a dead bush that crumpled to dust on impact with his flailing limbs. A short bow toppled out of sight for an instant.

“Don’t you know who I am?”

“Do I look like I care?” The bowman was on his feet in seconds and aiming another arrow, his arms confident and steady, and his gaze sharp despite the blatant fear that coloured his voice at the sight of such a powerful sorcerer. He wasn’t as gaunt as Martin Fletcher had become. “Who are you and what are you doing here? Tell me now or this arrow goes between your eyes!”

“Merlin Bayard – Prince of Camelot and Mercia.”

“And I’m Prince William of Ealdor,” the bowman answered immediately, his expression hardening, the string of his bow tautening further. Arthur decided he liked this fellow in an instant and almost smiled as he helped Gwen to her feet. “No nobleman could come help us without sparking a war. Tell me the truth. Now!”

“Merlin _is_ telling the truth. Your father asked for our help and we came as quick as we could.” Lady Hunith dusted off her trousers when she got to her feet and gave William an unimpressed look. The words made the bowman falter, made the string of his bow ease into something somewhat less threatening, made him look at Lady Hunith at once. “I wouldn’t recommend firing first and asking questions later in future. Not all potential allies would be so forgiving.”

“Lady Hunith?” William faltered even more. “You’ve seen Pa?”

“Martin arrived in Camelot yesterday,” Lady Hunith answered gently, her expression softening, sweeping forward to grasp his shoulder. “A friend of mine is caring for him now and he’ll be better before you know it. When did he leave Ealdor? Has anything developed since he left?”

“Kanen stepped up his plan. He arrives tomorrow.” William ceased aiming his bow, stowed the arrow in his quiver, and unstrung the bow in rapid succession. He looked straight at Merlin. “Pa left a week ago. I wasn’t expecting him to ever reach Camelot.”

“Your father is one of the strongest men I’ve ever met.” It wasn’t spoken in a tone meant to flatter, noted Arthur, who looked askance at his master. Merlin stood resolute beside him. His overwhelming power died down and the illumination faded until just their group remained bathed in the glow from that floating sphere of light. “You should be proud of him.”

“I am.” William huffed and looked away, his hand tightening around his bow, his gaze flicking across the group before turning toward the village behind him. He headed off and the group followed automatically, aware now that this man carried some sense of leading power in Ealdor – self-claimed or not. He looked askance at Merlin. “I suppose you’ll need a place to sleep for the night. I have a spare room where the ladies can stay now, but I’m not sure about the two of you. We don’t have much space around here.”

“What about the old house?”

“I guess that could work...but the house isn’t great.” William glanced at Hunith. “No one ever took it over after you left and we couldn’t afford to maintain it for long, not after Kanen came.”

“It’ll do.” Merlin waved a dismissive hand. “I’ve slept in enough caves to appreciate the warmth of even the most rundown house.”

“Wow. Try not to sound too grateful.”

Arthur snorted in amusement and then coughed when Merlin looked askance at him. He looked down and away, a small smile curling his mouth when his master swatted him. Merlin returned his attention to William before saying, “I never meant to cause offence. I hope you can find reason to pardon me come tomorrow; we need to be a cohesive unit to have a chance against these bastards. What are your numbers like? How many will need to be protected?”

“This is the house.” William waved a hand at the ramshackle hovel that sagged with misery, its front shutters like two endless chasms of despair in the darkness. He then ran a tired hand over his face. “As for what you’re asking....most of the village will need to be protected. The eldest are skin and bone at this point – those idiots kept refusing to eat in favour of feeding the children and the others our age. We’ve only managed to make them eat two or three times in the last three weeks. The children are too young to be involved in this conflict: we’ll have to find somewhere to hide them before Kanen arrives tomorrow. We have four able-bodied men and women capable of fighting and none of them have much experience in combat.”

“How did you learn to use that bow then?”

“Pa taught me when I turned fourteen. He learned from his Pa and so on.” William looked down at his bow, his hands tightening around it protectively, and his expression hardening. A bitter laugh escaped him. “Having a great grandpa that used to make arrows for a King meant a lot more before Cenred ascended the throne. But at least that skill became good for something, eh?”

William raised the bow in a mocking salute and hastened away, beckoning the women to follow, and Gwen threw a glance over her shoulder, her expression troubled as she and Lady Hunith left Merlin and Arthur alone for the night. Arthur gave her a reassuring wave and a small smile. Intending to open the door, he turned to face the house and managed a single step before Merlin gripped his shoulder, his touch warm and commanding, and his expression serious. Arthur looked glanced over his shoulder at him and arched an eyebrow in question.

“I’m afraid we can’t sleep yet. You need some basic training.”

“Training?”

“Yes.” Merlin turned him around with a rough hand and brushed aside the travelling cloak. Arthur swallowed as his master gestured at the long scabbard brushing against his thigh. “Draw that blade tomorrow without knowing the basics and you’ll die within a few seconds. I need to teach you a few basic moves before you can fall into bed tonight.”

“And then we can sleep?”

“Then we can sleep,” Merlin agreed gently, snaring his wrist with a warm hand and tugging him away, guiding him to a spot some distance from the village. “Come on. Draw the sword.”

“Merlin?” Arthur looked up from where he’d just dropped the crossbow, quiver, and his travelling cloak in one quick sweep. Merlin paused in the middle of unclasping his own cloak and his eyes sparked at the rare utterance of his name. His throat tightened under the heat of that stare. Arthur drew the blade in a less than fluid move and adopted the stance he’d seen his master take so often. “Show me what I’m doing wrong?”

A soft and knowing smile curled that familiar mouth and Arthur watched the cloak flutter, the material pooling to the ground silently, his heart jumping into his constricting throat as Merlin moved around behind him without question. His heart thumped and his eyes squeezed shut as Merlin came closer, almost moulding himself against Arthur, sure and confident hands reaching around him to correct the positioning of his thighs and his arms and even the angle of his leading hip. Arthur knew it was wrong, wrong to take advantage of the situation and the nearness of his master, but he couldn’t help turning his face to Merlin and whispering, “Do you remember our first ride together?”

“How could I forget?” Merlin gave him a teasing smile and leaned closer to nuzzle his face. The hand lingering against his hip tightened and Arthur wondered whether he’d have a bruise there come morning. His heart ached at the thought of Merlin marking him in some way, claiming him as no one else had ever claimed him before. His vision blurred and he blinked to clear it. “I gave you the most invigorating ride of your life and you still rejected me!”

Arthur almost choked on a burst of laughter, prompting a laugh from Merlin that almost sounded like a childish giggle. It was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. His heart ripped in half at the sound of that warm adoration and happiness. It took several moments to calm himself down and continue speaking, murmuring, “But do you remember what I said?”

“I do.” His hand tightened further. Merlin brushed the ghost of a kiss against the corner of his eye with a tenderness that almost made his knees buckle with rising grief and so much regret. “I’ll never forget what you said that day, but it can wait. We’ve got more important things to do. Focus on your training for a while and we might get some sleep tonight!”


	28. Chapter Twenty-Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, folks. 
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think!

Morning came to find Arthur and Merlin wrapped around each other, having taken advantage of the chance to sleep together without having to lock the door, the former with his head tucked up under a warm chin and a band of pale-skinned iron pressed across his back. His toes poked out from under the blanket Merlin had conjured when he and Arthur crawled at last into bed sometime before dawn. Arthur drew his feet up with a low grumble and a faint shiver, shuffling still closer, naked skin damp with sweat wherever he’d been pressed against his master. His muscles ached in several places...but it wasn’t the worst pain he’d ever experienced in his life. It wasn’t as bad as when Merlin first started training him the previous year, his muscles strong but inexperienced where it mattered. He knew he had to start moving, to crawl out of the low and miserable excuse for a bed and move away, and put some distance back up between them. But he didn’t want to do that yet. Nor did Arthur even know how, aware now that he had to luxuriate in each lingering moment that arose between him and his master, the same man now trailing the softest kisses across his mussed hair.

“I can hear you thinking,” Merlin mumbled against his hair, arm tightening around Arthur, a fact that pleased him to no end even as a pulse of terror rippled through him at the thought of Merlin hearing his thoughts. He looked up. His master, however, looked as serene as a lake on a summer afternoon: there wasn’t a single trace of fear or grief or regret in sight. Merlin was just a man at peace for the first time since Arthur had met him. His eyes drifted closed as Merlin kissed his forehead. It wasn’t the faint ghost of a kiss. He’d stopped bestowing those when Arthur asked him to, the pair facing each other in the bed the previous night and just staring at each other, their eyes tracing each line and curve visible as the blanket settled over them before Merlin reached for him with eager hands and welcoming magic and pulled him closer. He’d pulled Arthur right up against him and pressed full kisses against his cheek and his jaw, his nose and his forehead and even against his eyelids. He’d murmured that he’d kiss his mouth when the fight was over, when he and Arthur had a real chance to luxuriate in each other, in the warm press of skin against skin and mutual hunger. He’d murmured that the thought of kissing Arthur was so strong that just a taste would make Merlin far too eager to sleep at all.

Just the thought had earned an embarrassed and pleased flush from Arthur.

“You think too hard.” Merlin pressed another kiss against the bridge of his nose and started running a gentle hand up and down the curve of his back. He twitched whenever those familiar calluses ran over the raised and knotted scars decorating his flesh. He’d seen them once or twice in the mirror, and it wasn’t a sight Arthur much liked looking at. He wasn’t even certain he liked having them touched...but the thought of not being touched at all made him want to cling to the man in front of him and never let go. “You’d best be careful or you’ll be stuck with a frown forever.”

Arthur just about managed to smile when all he wanted to do was break down.

“Hey,” Merlin said tenderly, hand coming up to frame his jaw gently, prompting Arthur to open eyes blurred with unshed tears. He blinked his vision clear, and swallowed when something wet slid down his face before Merlin wiped it away, thumb gentle and far too loving to be described. “Being afraid...and being upset at having to fight and hurt other people is normal and more than valid. But we’re going to be okay; I’ll make sure of it. Can you trust me that much at least?”

Arthur flinched away, the words so much like a slap after the previous day, but he knew he’d deserved it. He extricated himself from Merlin and scrambled out of bed. His hands shook as he searched for the tunic he’d dropped on the floor, having dared his master without uttering a single word to sleep naked beside him as he’d stripped it and his trousers and stockings away, leaving himself bare as Merlin had swallowed at the sight of so much bared skin that he could touch as much as he wanted. He’d released a shaking breath as he’d watched Arthur crawl across the bed and settle down and then he’d stripped his own clothes away, baring himself in a rush and almost scrambling on to the bed after him. Arthur could feel Merlin watching him now, could feel his confusion and misery, his quiet longing.

“I’m serious.” Arthur slipped his black tunic over his head and threw a glance over his shoulder, meeting the uncertain gaze with an arched eyebrow to conceal his own turbulent emotions. He had to use masks. He’d never been able to lie...but he was good at wearing a mask. He’d grown somewhat skilled at it over the years of service to the Crown Prince of Camelot and Mercia. Merlin quickened with resolve and sat up to brace himself against the old headboard. “I’m going to take care of you. No one will get close enough to hurt you today, Arthur; I promise.”

“You can’t swaddle me forever.”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t like to be swaddled sometimes.” Merlin shuffled forward to the edge of the bed and stilled him with a gentle hand. His calluses felt exquisite against his bare skin. Arthur let himself be turned around as he struggled against the rapid pounding in his chest. His throat tightened as he looked down at his master, that raven hair scruffy, those eyes glittering where his head came level with the hem of his tunic. Merlin donned a playful smile. The sight of that smile devastated him even as his manhood twitched and hardened as Merlin teased a thumb beneath the hem of his tunic and caressed the vulnerable skin within reach. “You melt into a puddle each time I wrap around you like a blanket – with or without the use of magic.”

The sharp and loud knock on the outer door disrupted them before Merlin could be more daring, more adventurous that he’d been allowed to be under their usual circumstances. His chest heaving, Arthur pulled away, watching his master don the mask of a warrior before rising from the bed and dressing, hastening out and leaving him alone.

Arthur released a shaking breath.

It took forever to calm his heart and even longer to calm his raging manhood.

Merlin was in deep conversation with William when Arthur emerged at last from the house. It felt strange to be wearing clothes again after spending the night without them and pressed up against his master like a cherished lover. Merlin glanced at Arthur, smiled and kept talking, discussing whatever important matters needed to be discussed to ensure the fortification of the village. Arthur joined them in time to hear word of digging a pit and filling it with stakes strong enough to impale a horse. His gut twisted at the thought. He knew now, however, that difficult decisions needed to be made for the greater good. He and Merlin shared another glance and Arthur nodded in understanding, moving away, intending to find a shovel and get it started. It took a minute or two, but he found one eventually, and headed off to the spot Merlin had indicated during his discussion with William.

Gwen soon joined him with a borrowed shovel of her own.

“Have you told him yet?”

“No.” Arthur gave her a sharp look and kept shovelling, working up a sweat in no time at all. The act of shovelling moved quicker as he and Gwen worked together, but he could still feel Gwen looking at him even as she shovelled alongside him. “Don’t look at me like that. He said to wait until after we help Ealdor. Do you want him to be distracted when we’re fighting?”

“I want him to know the truth. He deserves that much.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” His hands tightened around the shovel. The muscles in his back tensed and strained as he worked. “I treated him like a monster, Gwen.”

“You were upset. Surely, he’ll understand once he calms down –”

“He _has_ calmed down. But that doesn’t _matter_.” His shovelling grew more vigorous as he tossed another heap of earth over the edge of the growing pit. Anger hardened his features. “I chose not to trust him when he needed me to and now he’ll suffer for that mistake. I know I need to tell him about Jeffrey, about what happened in the lower town...but I can’t. Is it so wrong of me to give him a night or two of relative peace before it all ends?”

“No. I suppose not.” Gwen looked back down at the ground and sighed. “Just as long as you tell him before he starts heading back to the capital. He needs to know you won’t be going back with him.”

“Whoever said I’m not going back? Maybe I deserve the future waiting for me – for thinking that I could ever outwit the King and his men. Maybe I deserve it for being a damned idiot. The King must have had that bastard watching the house ever since the whipping, just waiting for me to make one crucial mistake. I should have known better.” His eyes searched for Merlin and found him heading back toward the border – to get some decent logs for those spikes he’d mentioned earlier. His heart ached at the sight of his retreating back. “I _have_ to go back to Camelot. Letting me go would just make it worse for His Highness in the end. I don’t want him to die for the mistake I made last night. You know I can’t let that happen: Camelot and Mercia deserve a kind ruler to ascend the throne more than I ever deserved freedom from the King. I’m thinking about the greater good here.”

“Thinking about that got us into this mess in the first place.” Gwen huffed and tossed her braid over her shoulder, scowling at him from the other side of the pit. “I just hope you know what you’re doing this time.”

“When do I ever know what I’m doing,” Arthur grumbled to himself as he returned his attention to shovelling, to making the pit larger, to distracting himself from the future waiting for him when the imminent fight came to an end.

Merlin returned from the Forest of Ascetir with numerous thick poles of wood in tow before Arthur and Gwen even finished digging the pit and said he’d take care of the rest with magic. He also said he’d set spells of concealment in order to keep the pit unseen until it was too late for the first few bandits that would arrive in force. He reached a hand down into the pit and Arthur took it immediately, flushed with exertion and panting, letting Merlin pull him out with one heave of combined muscle and magic. It brought them almost flush against each other. Arthur turned away, relieved his face was flushed already, and reached down to help Gwen out of the pit.

His stomach grumbled.

Hers did the same a moment later.

The pair shared an awkward glance and looked away; the food packed before their trek had rotted as soon as their feet crossed the border. Neither of them was willing to go looking for food when the village was starving, slowly and surely, day after day, though the villagers donned a brave face each morning. Some torn scrap of hope and messed up sense of personal pride kept them going, kept them resilient against the future inching closer and closer; not even the children complained of their hunger, though he supposed the realisation that complaining would accomplish nothing must have settled in at some point.

It wasn’t a thought he liked to contemplate much.

It was even more disconcerting whenever Merlin declined the offer of food as he weaved protective enchantments throughout the village. Alarm shot through Arthur whenever he spotted his master pressing a hand over his stomach or clutching at the nearest building, knuckles white and face draining of colour, before Merlin straightened himself up and continued on as though it never happened in the first place. He’d been about to decline for the fourth time when Arthur interjected smoothly, saying, “His Highness does need food. Thank you so much for your hospitality; I’m sure his appreciation knows no bounds.”

He smiled at the girl for good measure.

“What are you doing,” Merlin hissed as the girl hastened away, intending to find some scrap of food that could be shared with him. His master wasn’t pleased to see him interfering, but Arthur no longer cared about propriety, and took the chance to shove Merlin up against the nearest barn. The wood rattled under the force of their impact. Merlin clutched at his shoulders tightly, and stared at him as though he almost expected Arthur to transform into a ravening beast of some description. “These people can’t afford to share with me!”

“You can’t keep declining food – not when you need to protect these people. I know how much the magic drains your reserves of energy; you need to keep your strength up for when Kanen gets here.”

“Arthur –”

“Just do as you’re told and eat!”

“Did you just give me an order?”

“Yes!”

“Did you know you look rather wild when you’re angry,” Merlin mused aloud a minute or so later, now staring at Arthur, who felt that foreign and familiar manhood pressing against his thigh twitch in interest. Both of them flushed in the same instant. Arthur looked away, his face flaming at the thought of having such an effect upon his master, but swallowed the awkward laugh that threatened to bubble free. “I’m serious. It makes your face flush and your eyes darken. Quite fetching, actually; remind me to taunt you in the bedroom in future sometimes. It’ll make for some riveting entertainment!”

Arthur cuffed his head hard enough to earn a startled exclamation. He’d have done more were it not for the girl returning, clutching a steaming bowl of the weakest gruel he’d ever seen and a slice of the stalest bread that could have concussed someone with ease when thrown. He thanked her with a warm smile and waited until she was gone before turning to face his master, holding the bowl out in offer, his expression demanding.

Merlin let out a frustrated sigh and took the bowl from him without a word. He swallowed one spoonful and then began to eat ravenously, his hunger flaring at the taste of even that meagre scrap of available energy, eyes fluttering closed as he shoved spoonful after spoonful into his mouth. A wave of relief washed through Arthur; at least his master wouldn’t collapse before the fight even took place now. Merlin used the last of the gruel to soften the stale bread and ate that as well. His spoon scraped against the bowl to get every last drop and crumb.

“Better?”

“Somewhat.” Merlin looked up. “Thank you.”

“I do care about you.” Arthur looked down and away, his heart thumping, his throat constricting. His apple bobbed as he swallowed. His hand twitching, Arthur reached for the baselard hanging from his belt and gripped the hilt tightly, doing his best to conceal the anxious tremble as he spoke in a quiet murmur. He wasn’t able to look at Merlin. “I know last night made you think otherwise for a while. I said things to you that weren’t true and weren’t fair; I never even paused to consider your...delicate position and I’m...I’m sorry. You deserved so much better than how I treated you.” His throat burned hot and sharp around the words. He looked up then and found Merlin staring at him intensely, his expression on the verge of heartbreak. Arthur chewed his bottom lip and gestured between them. “You deserve better than this. You’ve deserved so much better from the beginning.”

“It isn’t a question of deserving,” Merlin answered gently, reaching out to capture his hand and pull it closer, fingers callused and warm and loving. His intense stare remained sorrowful. “I chose you. I chose your impulsiveness and your temper; I chose the flaws right alongside the multitude of things that I love about you. Arthur, we all have good and bad inside us – but what we choose to do with those things is what makes us who we are. You chose not to trust in me last night and knowing that _does_ hurt...but I understand why; you haven’t had the best life in Camelot and you didn’t want these people forced to suffer a similar fate. You chose to help others even when it meant endangering yourself. It was stupid and reckless of you and it filled me with terror when I found you missing, but you’re still brave and strong and compassionate and those are the traits that make you the ideal King Consort.” A faint smile chased the sorrow away, curling across his mouth and softening his intense eyes. “We just need to work on your impulsiveness and our subpar communication skills.”

“I don’t feel strong.”

“Generally, most people don’t feel strong. But that doesn’t mean you aren’t.” Merlin squeezed his hand. His master then looked up at the sky, squinting, tracking the position of the sun. “Come on. We need to prepare before we run out of time. Mother and Gwen are securing the others in the barn we chose as the focal point earlier.”

Merlin led him away, his grip warm and secure. He pressed the bowl into the hands of a passing villager, ushered Arthur into the house and shut the door, throwing an indescribable glance at him in the process. Arthur watched him move across to the burlap sack he’d brought the night before. Countless rings of steel gleamed as Merlin pulled out a hauberk in one quick sweep; it was much broader than the one his master often wore and Arthur gaped at the sight of it.

“Is that for me?”

“From Sir Tor, with love – or it would have been had I asked him.” Merlin gave him a sheepish smile and tossed the hauberk at him. Arthur fumbled to catch it. “I sort of borrowed it without permission. But he won’t miss it much: he has more than enough hauberks to spare one. It won’t be a perfect fit...but it’ll do. Put it on and I’ll make whatever adjustments I need to. I’ll return it to normal before we head home tomorrow.”

Swallowing, Arthur looked down at the hauberk to conceal the stabbing pain that shot through him at the mention of returning home to Camelot. He pulled the hauberk on over his head and slipped his arms through the appropriate holes before letting the chainmail slip into place. He couldn’t help squirming with discomfort: the hauberk was a bit heavy, and it felt more like when he’d been a child strapping a pot to his head and using a wooden spoon to fight against Gwen and her own wooden spoon within the protective walls of the old house. Such games never took place outside. Biting his lip uncertainly, Arthur looked up at his master, knowing he must look like an idiot pretending to be something he wasn’t.

Merlin was smiling, however, his expression warm and soft as he stepped forward slowly, hands slipping beneath the chainmail to find the buckle of his belt. Arthur swallowed a wave of embarrassment as Merlin opened it without fumbling, slipped it free and then wrapped it around him again – now over the hauberk. He hadn’t thought of doing that himself.

It was a dreadful oversight that wouldn’t be repeated in future.

“Chainmail suits you.”

“Don’t be stupid. You’re just imagining yourself taking it back off later.”

Merlin snorted in amusement and leaned in to press a kiss against his forehead.

His face flaming, Arthur looked away, only to look at his master again when Merlin abandoned him in order to reach into the burlap sack again and withdraw his own chainmail. He swept it over his head and the hauberk slid into place with familiarity, draping across his slender frame in a pleasing manner, highlighting the fine span of his narrow and strong shoulders. Next came the vambraces and the spaulder, which Arthur helped his master secure in place quickly, his hands quick and confident. Securing armour was one of his various acquired skills now; Arthur could do it with his eyes closed. He helped Merlin with the greaves next and then Merlin returned the favour, securing greaves and vambraces in quick succession. The fit wasn’t quite perfect...but it would do well enough for the fight.

Some protection was far better than no protection at all.

Merlin was about to step outside when Arthur caught his elbow, his heart hammering, his grip almost shaking. His master glanced over his shoulder and something flickered across his face before Merlin turned around fully, staring at Arthur, reaching out with a gentle hand and murmuring his name in concern.

“Merlin...” Arthur swallowed thickly, cutting off the rising note in his voice that often signified a surge of sudden panic or stress. His skin grew hot and uncomfortable beneath the hauberk. He looked down at the floor, unable to look at his master, at the man he’d loved for so long and would love until his last breath. His voice sounded small and vulnerable even to his own ears when he started speaking again. “Will you promise me something?”

“Anything,” Merlin answered quietly, his own voice nervous and uncertain. “I’d promise you the world. You know that.”

“If I don’t make it home –”

“You will –”

“Just let me get this out while I can. Please.” His voice cracked down the middle and Merlin fell silent immediately, and Arthur looked up at him in mounting desperation. His hand shook as he ran it over the back of his neck. He forced himself to swallow the lump that swelled inside his constricting throat. “If I don’t make it home...I need you to tell Tom that I’m...that I’m _proud_ to have been his son. Growing up in that house was the best thing that ever happened to me and I’m so grateful that he was kind enough to welcome me into his home when no one...when no one even wanted to look at me.” Arthur wiped at his damned face with the back of his hand and shook his head sharply, doing his best to clear his muddling thoughts before he became a complete mess in front of his master again. “Tell him – and tell Elyan – that I know I was a burden. I know that having me around made the King suspicious of them and made their lives harder. I know it would have been so much easier to just let one of the others throw me in a river or something.”

“Arthur –”

“Lastly,” continued Arthur, on the verge of choking on the emotions surging through him and rushing to speak over his master, “tell them that I love them. I know I never said it often enough. But I do. I do love them. So just...tell them that. Please.”

“Should the worst occur, I’ll tell them...but you can’t go into a fight convinced you’re never coming back.” Merlin gripped his shoulder and squeezed through the chainmail. His concerned stare intensified. “Negative thinking has as much influential power as positive thinking. You need to believe you’ll make it. Do you remember the plan?”

“Get on the roof and stay low,” Arthur recited immediately, latching onto the plan in order to get his emotions under some semblance of control. He reached for the quiver of bolts and strapped it across his back and then picked up the crossbow, his grip confident now, after having taken a few practice shots earlier. He’d missed the first target and then proceeded to nail each target that followed once he’d reconfigured his calculations to include the minute changes in wind-speed and the recoil. Hitting nine targets out of ten wasn’t terrible for a first attempt. William had scoffed at Merlin and his decision to let someone so inexperienced handle the crossbow during the fight until Arthur had proven the doubting arse wrong. Remembered spite rippled through him. “Take out as many of the bandits as I can. Don’t come down unless I’m spotted or someone manages to slip around you and your mother. Help Gwen and William protect the barn at all costs.” His grip tightened around the crossbow. “Why can’t I be on the ground with Gwen?”

“You’re better with a crossbow than you are with a sword right now and I can’t imagine you’ll get close enough to use Carnwennan – not when these bandits have so much more experience at fighting than you.” Merlin gave him an apologetic smile. Arthur supposed the decision was understandable: he might have even done the same were their positions reversed and Merlin had taken to the crossbow like a duck to water as Arthur had earlier.  “You ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Merlin squeezed his shoulder a fraction tighter and turned to open the door, leading Arthur outside to face the future waiting for them.


	29. Chapter Twenty-Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This chapter contains dialogue similar to dialogue from the show.
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think!

His tunic clung to his skin as heat continued to build across his frame: the sun overhead was relentless and the hauberk soaked it right up, making him squirm with discomfort. Another bead of sweat slid down past his temple. He wasn’t certain how Merlin and his men could bear to wear chainmail for prolonged periods of time. He wasn’t sure he could bear it much longer himself – but he supposed those men had gone through years of training, years of acclimatising to the extremes of hot and cold that arose from wearing a hauberk. Arthur popped open the cap of the wineskin he’d taken with him and took a sip. He almost moaned around the moisture sweeping across his tongue and took great pleasure in swallowing, in feeling that cool water slide down his throat. Readjusting his grip on the crossbow, Arthur glanced over at the rooftop mirroring his own and spotted William taking a sip from his own wineskin. He and Arthur had been overhead for what felt like a day, but had been little more than an hour.

Ealdor was quiet below them: those too emaciated or too young to fight were safe in the barn now, huddled together for comfort. The people left to protect them were leaning against the two barns or stretching out their limbs and armed with various weapons and lethal farming tools – one young woman gripped a sickle like a vice and another clutched a pitchfork with determination. An atmosphere of dark and anxious anticipation had settled over the village in the long hours since sunrise.  

Arthur glanced down at his master, who was running elegant fingers down the length of his sword as he scanned for imperfections. He couldn’t risk the blade snapping in the middle of the imminent fight. His heart swelled and splintered at the sight of Merlin. He ripped his gaze away, and focused on the distant tree line that William claimed was the point of arrival each time Kanen and his bandits terrorised the villagers. A minute or two passed before he noticed a sharp shift in the shadow, and Arthur gave a low whistle an instant before a band of riders emerged from the tree line.

Plumes of dust rose around hooves that thundered against the earth.

Already, Arthur could discern which rider was the leader: Kanen carried himself with an arrogance that sickened him. His head started whirring, calculating, but Arthur had the smallest window for success while Kanen wore that combination of turban and helm and the swath of fabric concealing his lower face. Clenching his jaw, Arthur took aim at another rider as the lot thundered past and made a furore. The world around him dwindled down to the weight of the crossbow in his hands and the tight press against his shoulder, the breeze rippling through his hair, the depth of his breath. One second trickled past and another, and then Kanen was rearing, wrenching his horse back from the approaching edge of the pit as the two bandits just ahead of him and their horses toppled forward to impale upon the stakes with twin screams and a sickening crunch.

Arthur fired.

The rider died without uttering a single sound as the bolt embedded in the back of his vulnerable skull. He toppled from the saddle and thumped to the ground – the horse reared with alarm and trampled his corpse in the process. His horse bolted in an instant and retreated amid loud neighing, as did countless other horses that had thrown their riders to the ground during the wave of terror that rippled through the herd.

A wall of flame ignited as soon as most of the horses had escaped the ensuing chaos of the battle and trapped the remaining bandits at last.

An arrow from William took out a second rider an instant later, the man standing now, his face twisted in a furious snarl as he and Arthur started picking off bandits one at a time. The pair covered for each other, taking immediate aim at the ones that made a target of the other, until the melee was so quick and intense below that one managed to slip past their sharp observations. Arthur almost failed to notice the woman until she was almost upon Arthur, growling, having used one of the carts as a stepping stone to reach him. He abandoned the wineskin and scrambled back as she came after him and threw himself over the edge building, turning, bringing the crossbow back up as she dove after him. The bolt he fired buried itself in her left eye socket and deep into her brain and Arthur noticed little else before he crashed to the ground.

Her corpse thumped into the ground at his feet.

The fall wasn’t far enough to kill or maim Arthur, but the force of the impact punched the breath right out of his frame. He couldn’t even move for a second that stretched for an eternity, and then he was crashing the butt of his crossbow into the masculine face that appeared to take advantage of him with strength enough to startle even Arthur, his face twisting in a snarl of his own. Arthur followed after the blow, the loud crunch of bone and the splash of vibrant red sickening and exhilarating, inspiring him to keep fighting because he knew how to make another person bleed and crumple. He’d known since the first time he fought back against Jeffrey and his gang, since the first time his curled fist collided with another human being, pain and regret and anger and spite making alliances against each other and waging war inside him. He slammed the butt of the crossbow down again and watched the man slump into unconsciousness.

Arthur scrambled to his feet and started moving, dropping the crossbow and drawing the sword from the scabbard at his hip in rapid succession. He raised the blade in a furious swing and clashed steel with the man barrelling straight for Gwen and her exposed back as she clashed against her own aggressor, her blade blurring in her fury, his own sending a jarring force shooting through his arm as the man opposite him snarled and drove him back step after step until he slammed into the broadside of the barn he’d been assigned to. Arthur swallowed the resultant shout of pain and saw red an instant before he slammed his knee up, up, up into those vulnerable jewels that earned a choked noise and a red face as his opponent crumpled to his knees. His sword fell to the ground. Snarling, Arthur drove his own sword forward with as much strength as he could muster, his stomach churning in protest as the blade sank deep with a wet squelch and a scrape of steel against bone.

He didn’t have time to be sick.

Swallowing, Arthur shoved the corpse back with a hard kick and freed his blade in the process. He propelled himself forward with a surge of violent fury, his blood roaring in his ears as his eyes searched through the chaos for someone that might need help.

Familiar movement in his peripheral vision made his gaze snap upwards in an instant and he spotted William struggling on the other rooftop, his aggressor towering over him with a hand wrapped around his neck. Dangling feet thrashed. Frantic hands scrabbled for freedom. Blunt nails clawed at tender flesh. But the bandit remained unmoved and merciless. Growling, Arthur charged forward and made use of a cart as a stepping stone just as his first close-combat opponent had earlier, and drove his blade down through flesh and leather. The bandit roared and released William immediately, his attention torn now between his wound and Arthur, who wrenched the blade back out as William coughed and spluttered and fumbled for one of the splintered ends of his broken short-bow.

William rose up with desperate determination and attacked.

The bandit went down gurgling, splintered wood buried deep in his throat and blood cascading, staining his flesh and his clothes. William kicked his twitching corpse over the edge of the roof and shared a sharp look with Arthur, the pair of them breathing hard and joined together in permanent kinship. Arthur withdrew his ancestral blade after a brief moment and shoved it into hands now without weapons before the pair scrambled down from atop the barn together, eager and almost lusting after blood now. He and William threw themselves straight into the fray, sourcing an opponent each and Arthur gave the new fight as much strength as he could muster, muscles aching more and more with each jarring impact as he met each swing of dangerous steel with determination. His heart pounded in his chest. His lungs ached with each harsh drag of air, Arthur forcing himself to breathe deeply, knowing the flow of air couldn’t stop for even a moment or he’d be taken down in an instant. The world slowed around him as Arthur fought against his opponent – it slowed down until he could hear each shout of pain that rose around him and each snarl of fury, each clash of steel and each distortion of air as a bandit twirled a flail nearby, his footsteps approaching fast.

Arthur threw himself to the ground at the last second and rolled out of the way, his gaze snapping up to catch the flail sinking into the vulnerable skull of his former opponent even as the force of that swing his former opponent had taken drove the blade he’d faced straight through the space he’d occupied less than a moment ago and then through an unprotected thigh. He scrambled to his feet and swallowed hard as blood arced up at first and then pumped and pumped as the bandit clutching the flail went down with a hoarse shout. That shout soon morphed into a feeble moan. Arthur swallowed again. Sweat beaded on his skin as his heart tried to punch a hole through his chest. He was still reeling from the powerful surge of adrenaline and fright when Gwen ploughed into him and knocked him aside with a grunt of effort before raising her sword to defend against the woman that had come up behind him. Gwen took her down in seconds and turned to Arthur, flushed and panting, her hand seizing his elbow, shouting to be heard over the continuing melee: “Come on! Lady Hunith is surrounded!”

He and Gwen bolted together.

His adrenaline surged anew, driving him forward to help the woman that raised the man he loved and that he’d grown to care for so much. His blood boiled with rage when he saw the growing bruise marring her face as Lady Hunith reeled back from another sharp blow, stumbling, her sword tumbling from her grasp as she spat a curse before dancing back from a third blow, the curled fist missing her face with less than an inch to spare. Two more bandits closed in on her from behind. Blood fell from her nose in a thick stream. Her braid was a mess: loose tendrils of brown hair stuck out in all directions.

Arthur scooped up a stone from the ground as he raced toward them and his head whirred through the required calculations a moment before he let the stone fly, and it struck the bastard in the head hard enough to make him jerk in surprise.

Gwen stormed past as Arthur charged at the bandit that whirled to face him.

Steel sang as rage and determination made each movement flow into the one that followed seamlessly, Arthur and his opponent almost dancing with each other, coming in close to snarl and spit insults at each other before shoving away, only to come back in a few seconds later. He thought of the kind woman that had welcomed him with open arms despite his name and heritage and fought even harder, driving his opponent back further with each step Arthur forced – a fact that startled the bandit enough to earn a stupid mistake. Arthur took immediate advantage of the situation. He hooked a foot around an ankle and brought the bandit crashing down even as a sharp twist of his blade disarmed the bastard. Steel gleamed as Arthur drove his sword through the soft skin and tendons and bones of his exposed neck and almost cleaved the head free entirely, his mouth twisting, his eyes sparking first with righteous anger and then mounting surprise at his own quick manoeuvring.

He wasn’t certain where that disarming move had come from. It wasn’t one he’d practiced with Merlin the night before...but he’d seen Merlin use it more than once in the arena. He wasn’t certain how he could have replicated such a difficult move without practicing, without spending hour after hour perfecting the manoeuvre on the training field with Merlin.

Arthur looked around.

The chaos was dwindling, countless corpses strewn across earth drenched in crimson blood. Most of them belonged to those that fought for Kanen and just two belonged to their own side – Arthur recognised the woman that had been armed with a pitchfork and one of the men that had gone into the battle armed with a bread knife and a skillet: a brave and foolish choice made in desperation and that now proved a fatal mistake. The barrel of his chest heaving, Arthur searched for William and spotted him standing over a kneeling enemy, face now drenched with blood from a blow to his head and his hand curled tight around Carnwennan. Her lethal edge slashed through the air with frightening speed and the blood escaped in a thick spray, soaking flesh and clothes in the seconds before the bandit crumpled in a lifeless heap. Arthur swallowed a surge of bile at the sight and turned his face away, searching now for his master, and for Kanen.

It took less than a moment to spot them.

Merlin and Kanen circled each other, dangerous and slow, gazes sharp and intent. A ring of corpses surrounded them. Kanen smirked at his master, the cloth concealing his face absent now and his helm askew; Merlin was shaking even as he kept moving, his face drained of colour, a sure sign that he’d used too much magic during the battle.

“Getting tired?”

“You wish.” Merlin levelled a glare burning with hate at the man twirling his sword almost casually, as though he was just waiting for Merlin to drop to the ground with exhaustion – a typical coward that would rather win through default than through true merit. “You won’t live long enough to regret coming after these people: you’ll rest in pieces at their feet instead. I’ll make sure of it.”

Kanen chuckled and his smirk deepened slowly, his amusement growing, and then he was twirling forward as his sword spun in a furious arc that Merlin met with a grunt of exertion and clash of steel.

A primal fear burst through Arthur as Merlin stumbled back under a powerful onslaught from Kanen. Merlin had never been as proficient with a sword as he’d been with his shorter blades and his longbow, and he was exhausted now, his slender frame suffering for the drain his magic had caused. His master was too slow, his movements failing to match the speed required that would enable him to defend against Kanen adequately, and Kanen pressed his advantage with a triumphant snarl. Merlin reeled back from a sudden blow, his lower lip splitting, and blood trickling down to stain his chin.

Arthur almost choked on an enraged growl and stormed forward even as a sharp twist of a blade disarmed Merlin and another blow sent him sprawling, the dust rising to kiss his face and sting his split lip. Merlin spat blood and kicked out sharply, his boot slamming into an unprotected knee and Kanen went down with a scream as his knee bent in the opposite direction. Arthur never even managed to close the distance between them before Merlin kicked the sword away, the arrogant leader roaring in pain as his fingers snapped under the furious and well-aimed blow. Merlin scrambled up and hurtled himself at Kanen an instant later, his usually kind features dark with that hatred from earlier, his mouth twisted in a snarl. Steel gleamed as the baselard from his belt arced downwards and plunged through flesh. Arthur slowed to a stop and just watched Kanen twitch until he stopped moving, sprawled beneath his master, who spat out another mouthful of blood and looked up at Arthur, his mouth curling in a faint smile stained crimson.

And then Merlin keeled over.

Arthur closed the distance between them at a sprint and dropped his sword before falling to his knees and hauling Merlin up from the ground with a panicked noise. His fingers pressed against the pulse point. He released a shuddering sigh of relief as that strong pulse remained steady, though rapid after the battle for Ealdor. His hand shook as it slipped into raven hair. Arthur remained kneeling, cradling the man he loved still closer, his face crushed against the top of his head. His heart ached from the powerful fright he’d suffered. He didn’t move again until Lady Hunith knelt beside him and touched his elbow, her face bruised and swelling, but her smile tender and understanding as she beckoned with a quiet toss of her head. Arthur nodded in acknowledgement and let her help him get Merlin to his feet with an arm slung across each of their shoulders. It was a little unbalanced with Lady Hunith being so much shorter, but the pair managed to get Merlin back to the house and through the front door, the fighters that remained standing staring after them until Arthur kicked the door shut in their wake.

He and Lady Hunith carried Merlin into the bedroom and laid him down gently, his fingers moving to undo the buckles that kept the plate armour in place while Lady Hunith started unlacing his boots. His throat grew hot and tight at the sight of Merlin looking so small and vulnerable. Arthur couldn’t help leaning down to press a kiss against a forehead damp with sweat and stained with dust. His face flamed with mortification when he remembered that Lady Hunith was watching, watching him kiss her darling boy, who wasn’t able to decline his thoughtless advance. Arthur looked away, his hands shaking, the adrenaline from the battle ebbing, leaving him as an emotional mess that couldn’t function much before he managed to pull himself together.

Arthur rested a knee on the edge of the bed while Lady Hunith hastened to fetch a basin of water and pulled Merlin up gently, his hand sliding down to grip the hem of his hauberk. It took some manoeuvring, but he managed to get the hauberk up and off and Arthur let it fall to the floor, heedless of the blood staining the steel rings in countless places. He ran his hand through raven hair and felt another pulse of relief ripple through him when Merlin leaned into his touch without waking, as though some subconscious part of him recognised Arthur even when he wasn’t conscious. His mouth trembled until Arthur clenched his jaw and looked away, blinking to clear his vision before a single tear could cascade down his face. He’d wept enough for a lifetime and he knew he wasn’t yet finished weeping, but it could wait.

It could wait until Merlin was better.

Lady Hunith returned with the water and a cloth then and Arthur retreated immediately, distancing himself from the bed as she hastened forward. It wasn’t his place to look after him now, not when Lady Hunith had a much closer bond with his master, having known Merlin since he was the tiniest babe. He retreated until his bruised and aching back and shoulders pressed against the wall and he slid down with exhaustion. His chainmail clinked against the floor. Arthur felt as though he’d been pummelled even though he’d been the one doing most of the pummelling, even though his sword had been the one swinging hard and fast and furious throughout the battle for Ealdor, an extension of his arm that he’d never have time to master.

His head thumped against the wall.

An exhausted and somewhat bitter laugh escaped him at the thought of the future waiting for him back home. His eyes fluttered closed as the last of the adrenaline ebbed away, and Arthur managed to moisten his lips with a sweep of his tongue before he knew nothing more until someone shook him awake. Arthur jolted awake and flailed wildly, the back of his hand almost colliding with the face hovering over him.

Familiar calluses grazed his skin when that someone captured his hand and squeezed with just enough force to make him fall still. Arthur stared up at his master, who remained somewhat paler than usual and stared back at him with quiet intensity, expression warm and kind and concerned. Merlin was clean of dust and blood now, his plump bottom lip scabbed and swollen and bruised: just the sight of it flooded Arthur with familiar fury, his hand trembling as it rose to cup that pale face he’d come to love so much.

His thumb grazed the bruise with due care and consideration.

“Hey,” Arthur breathed as Merlin closed his eyes and released a sigh of pained pleasure. His heart thumped as the man he loved leaned into his touch as Arthur let his hand slip around to tangle with soft and damp raven hair. “What are you doing up? You need to rest and regain your strength. Have you at least eaten something?”

“I have.” Merlin opened his eyes and stared at Arthur, his expression softening even further, the undamaged side of his mouth quirking up. The purest happiness washed across his face. “You were worried about me?”

“You know I was. You know how much I care about you. It terrified me when you...when I thought you were...” His throat tightened around the words and the resultant emotions coursing through him. Heat burned his throat. “I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

“I know the feeling,” Merlin answered gently, his eyes brimming with emotion. “I’m glad your pessimism remained locked in here instead of following you to the battlefield. You don’t know how relieved I am to see you safe and sound.” His magic enveloped Arthur in a warm and tender embrace that earned a low moan as the bruised flesh across his back and shoulders relaxed. Merlin helped him up from the floor with great care and steadied him when a combination of hunger and exhaustion almost made his knees buckle beneath Arthur. “Careful now,” Merlin continued quietly, his arm tightening around his waist. “I know you’re tired and I know you’re in pain now, so I’m going to take care of you. I’m going to clean you up and then I’m going to show you something that’ll cheer you up something fierce.”

“No,” Arthur protested as he tried to pull himself away, “you need to rest.”

“I’ve rested enough to help you.”

“Your magic will consume your strength –”

“Then I’ll eat and replenish it –”

“What happened to these people not being able to afford to share with you?” Arthur arched an eyebrow expectantly, his tone sharp and pointed. Then his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Why the sudden change in behaviour? What are you concealing?”

“Can’t I leave it a surprise?” Merlin made a face at him and then cursed as his bottom lip split all over again. His eyes glowed gold and then a spark of magic sealed the wound in an instant. He sighed then and gave a beckoning toss of his head before shuffling him through the bedroom door, across the main room and then through the front door, out into the open air. His breath rushed out at the sight before Arthur: herb gardens and vegetable patches and crop fields bursting with life almost faster than the euphoric villagers could harvest them and the return of grass where dust had reigned earlier; the distant tree line was rejuvenating even as he watched. His vision blurred as the most powerful wave of relief he’d ever experienced crashed through him. Arthur blinked his vision clear and swallowed a sniffle as his face grew wet. Merlin interpreted his silence and continued speaking, “Essetir has a new monarch now: a Queen named Morgause Le Fay; your sister came to announce the news with a severed head in hand while you slept.”

Arthur whipped his head around to stare at his master, who gave him a tense smile before elaborating.

“Morgana and I swore a truce when she spotted Gwen and realised you must have come here with me – since we’re so inseparable. I imagine the visions she had of you in her youth included your loved ones from time to time.” Merlin seemed to struggle with that first part of his confession – as though just the thought of a truce with Morgana Pendragon made him most uncomfortable. He squeezed Arthur closer with a careful arm. “More importantly, she claimed Morgause challenged Cenred and bound him to a magical contract when he picked up the gauntlet: she and Cenred would fight to the death in the arena and she would take his last test upon herself should she emerge victorious. It was an ingenious move.” Merlin made another face. “Honestly, I wish I’d thought of it myself – the King might forgive me for gallivanting sooner had I won him a new realm. Needless to say, the witch won and took the final test when the Keeper came to take her as soon as Cenred crumpled at her feet. Good riddance to him! I just hope Morgause will prove to be a much wiser and far kinder ruler than her predecessor. I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see what the future brings.”

Arthur stared at his master, his heart pounding, a tendril of fear curling around his spine at the thought of war igniting between Camelot and Essetir when Morgause Le Fay learned of their interference in the realm now under her control. He wasn’t certain how Merlin could remain so calm when he’d been discovered interfering with the matters of another realm. Almost as though Merlin knew what he was thinking, his master went on to say, “Morgana gave us until tomorrow night to get out or she’d tell her sister we were here.”

“She just let us go?”

“I know; I don’t understand the choice at all.” Merlin started ushering him back into the house and shut the front door with a soft kick. He ushered Arthur across the main room then. “How can Morgana oscillate so much between helping us and opposing us? She murdered Morris to get you close to us in the hope that you’d rise up and murder us in our beds or lead a rebellion or something, and then she tried to abduct you because the King was hurting you. And then _she_ hurt you when you sounded the alarm and has been drawing me into skirmishes at the border, and now she turns around and offers to keep our presence here a secret from her beloved sister, the new Queen of Essetir? What on earth is Morgana after? Does she hope you’ll reconsider your stance someday? Does she hope you’ll offer her forgiveness for what she did?”

“I don’t know.” Arthur shook his head sharply, swallowing an exhausted yawn as Merlin settled him onto the nearest chair. The old and unmaintained wood creaked beneath him. Familiar hands reached for the buckle of his belt and opened it without fumbling even once. The strong leather fell to the floor even as Merlin reached for the hem of his hauberk and the embrace of magic intensified to counteract the pain that arose when Arthur lifted his arms obediently, allowing Merlin to pull the hauberk up and over his head. He tossed it aside without care. “I’m not even sure I can. Morgana should never have hurt someone in order to get me close to you. It would have happened eventually, wouldn’t it? I was destined to be at your side and her scheming just accelerated it. Fate would have brought us together at some point. Right?”

“Right.” His confirmation of their shared fate was immediate and then Merlin gave him a sharp and assessing look. “Was?”

“You know what I mean.” Arthur flushed and waved a dismissive hand before looking away, his embarrassment at the slip covering up the pain at knowing he’d ruined that future without thinking. Several moments of silence passed between them and then Arthur looked at the man he loved again. “What happens now?”

“Right now?” The assessing look faded into something softer, something loving, an expression that made Arthur swell with happiness and then deflate with growing sorrow. He watched the corner of that bruised mouth quirk up in a teasing manner. “I’m going to get you naked and then I’m going to get you wet.”

“And then?”

“I’m going to heal you and you’re going to crawl into that bed waiting on the other side of that door and sleep for a while longer. I’ll go out and gather some firewood for tonight and then I’ll wake you when you’re needed later, alright? We’ll be attending the funeral for our fallen comrades.” Merlin let the teasing expression fall away, leaving him morose and serious. “We’re going to torch the bandits too – although with far less ceremony and a lot more spitting and cursing, removing the evidence of the fight in the process.”

Arthur slipped back into silence at the thought of those villagers – the people he should have protected more carefully, that he should have helped when the two of them ran into trouble. He should have been more observant. He should have done so much more in the battle. Merlin leaned in and silenced his thoughts with the tender press of a kiss against his forehead. Arthur looked up and managed a small smile in response before Merlin reached for the hem of his tunic and undressed him further, baring skin that reeked of sweat from being trapped in the hauberk for so long and from being so active on the battlefield.

Arthur wrinkled his nose at the smell.

Merlin snorted in amusement before pressing another tender kiss against his forehead and then against the bridge of his nose.

Humming, Arthur leaned in for another, but Merlin just ruffled his hair before going down on one knee. He reached for the first boot and unlaced it as Arthur let his head fall back with weariness.

So much had taken place in the last day.

So much had changed.

It was so much more than exhausting and part of him wondered how much of it was real. How much of it was a dream or nightmare that his subconscious had conjured to torture him with so much doubt and regret and fear, so much pain. Part of him wondered whether he was still delirious with fever after his whipping at the unwilling hands of his master, his mind inventing this series of events that tormented him and kept him upon the dangerous edge of a blade.

It wouldn’t have surprised him. His damned head liked to wreak havoc with him as much as it loved numbers. His love for measuring and calculating, however, was a far more favourable pursuit for his head to engage in.

Simple calculations never hurt anyone unless Arthur wanted them to. He was the King of Calculating – a thought that earned an exhausted chuckle as gentle hands unlaced his trousers and gripped the waistband firmly, indicating that he needed to arch up and he did so immediately, moaning as his aching back protested. Merlin undressed him the rest of the way, never lingering, never fumbling, and never even batting an eyelash as the action bared him completely.

Arthur raised his head and looked at his master, still kneeling, so close now to his limp manhood. His face wrinkled. It wasn’t an appealing sight when limp, but he had no energy, not even enough to twitch with interest at the sight of Merlin kneeling in front of him.

“You can start dozing now,” Merlin murmured as he summoned a basin of water to his side and heated the contents with a glance laced with intent. Another glow of gold summoned a cloth and a bar of soap to his grasp and Merlin dipped it into the water, wrung it and rubbed it against the soap before reaching for the nearest foot. Arthur twitched at the gentle touch and almost pulled his foot away, the sole a fraction ticklish. His twitch turned into a deep sigh of content when Merlin applied more pressure. “I won’t mind. I just want to take care of you.”

Arthur shook his head slowly, eyes drifting closed as Merlin continued to look after him despite his continued rank as Crown Prince of Camelot and Mercia. He was sure no other nobleman would have stooped so low – apart from Sir Tor, but that man was a rather special case where Arthur was concerned. Sir Tor was a fool for loving Arthur, for sticking beside him when his heart was breaking even now, watching Arthur and Merlin grow closer with each passing year. It made him feel like a monster, but Arthur forced that thought out of his head as Merlin brought the cloth higher, moving up from his foot and along his leg, his fingers warm and callused where Merlin grazed his skin accidently.

Being so cared for and so loved was paradise on earth. 


	30. Chapter Twenty-Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. This chapter contains less dialogue than usual. For reasons. 
> 
> Let me know what you think???

The funeral was a quiet affair, the remaining villagers in mourning, most of them leaning against each other, supporting each other, their grieving almost as powerful an image as their emaciation. Even though he felt rather weak after the battle and his stomach continued to pang with hunger, Arthur felt like an overfed duck next to them: plump and fatty, his metaphorical feathers alive with all the nutrients required to keep him going. He remained close to his master, who made him feel better, though Arthur wasn’t certain how Merlin managed to ward off the discomfort with his mere presence. Maybe it was the warm weight of a pale hand in his. Maybe it was the brush of heat along his arm whenever Merlin shifted on his feet and relieved the ache in his knees from standing still for too long. It could even have been the tender recollection of their private moments together, Merlin caring for him and chasing the aches away, his magic running warm across his skin and healing the enormous bruise that decorated his back and shoulders. He wasn’t certain and he didn’t need to be.

Across the way, grieving, William lowered the burning torch to the funeral pyre and the atmosphere at the heart of the village grew heavier, faces turning to hide in necks and shoulders. William and Arthur, Lady Hunith and his adoptive sister, and Merlin continued to watch as the flames licked higher and higher, consuming, encouraged with the gentlest swell of magic. Arthur squeezed the hand clutched in his tighter. His master squeezed right back.

It was approaching midnight when the flames died down at last. A large distance away, the mound of bandit corpses kept burning, vibrant against the night sky, but uncared for and forgotten. None of those bastards mattered now.

Arthur and Merlin turned away, their steps synchronising, letting the villagers lead them over to the communal mourning feast set up at the far end of the village: steaming stew made from fresh vegetables and herbs and the first brace of rabbits snared within their own border since the curse began all those weeks ago; gruel just a fraction stronger for those invalided with hunger; fresh loaves of bread cooked in the wake of the first harvest. It wouldn’t be the last harvest in the days to come: the crops kept replicating; vegetables and herbs kept growing; wild trees developed yet more fruit after each new bunch was harvested. It was more food than the villagers had seen in weeks. Were it not for the men and women emaciated from starvation proving the contrary, it almost seemed as though the desolation of Essetir had been a figment of their imagination – a dream forged in the midst of delirium and designed to make them suffer en masse. The people that had suffered so much were now surrounded with food and that would continue to be torturous for some of them – their portions had to be controlled to ensure none of them ate themselves to death in their understandable eagerness.

He and Merlin settled down together, close enough to feel the subtle warm of each other, and Arthur leaned into him a little more. Being with him like this meant the world.

Arthur was quiet and withdrawn during the feast. His master, however, was his usual charming and inspiring self: talkative and comfortable with engaging complete strangers in conversation. Merlin charmed each person he spoke to with ease. Leaving his insecurities behind him wasn’t easy, but Arthur found it easier to let go of this particular one whenever he was with his master; some people were good at social interaction and others weren’t. His awkward silence was nothing to be ashamed of. People were more interested in Merlin anyway, knowing he’d almost been a permanent resident of Ealdor; it helped that no one knew his surname here. He’d failed to mention it whenever he’d introduced himself to someone new earlier that day, helping them and Merlin prepare the village for the battle that ensued.

Merlin devoured each and every morsel of food that William dished out to him. He kept apologising, his face flaming, but his stomach wouldn’t stop grumbling after he’d used so much magic to protect Ealdor.

“Just let them thank you for helping them.” Arthur murmured the words against the nearest ear, the pale skin grazing soft and warm against his lip. Merlin stilled beside him and then his slender frame rippled with a faint shiver, his hands tightening around the bowl of steaming stew in his grasp. Arthur smiled in pleasant surprise at the effect he had upon Merlin and then continued to murmur. “You fought for these people. You came when no other noble would have and these people know it. Feeding you is their way of thanking you for what you did for them. There is more than enough food to go around now and not leave them without in the process. You can’t help your lingering hunger anymore than you can help being a sorcerer.”

Merlin turned his head and reached for his hand again. His fingers were hot now from holding the bowl of stew and Arthur laced them with his own. Merlin squeezed his hand gently, his mouth curling in a warm smile that Arthur returned immediately, and that shared moment between them made the quiet anticipation building in his lower abdomen tighten a fraction. His face heated when Arthur saw that same anticipation reflected right back at him. It startled him when Merlin leaned in to press a kiss against his cheek in front of the various people watching; in front of his sister, and even his own mother, and Arthur looked away, his blush deepening, but squeezed the hand in his. It was both strange and wonderful to be somewhere where he and Merlin had no need to hide the bond between them.

Being able to do so back in Camelot would have been even more amazing; just the thought of a world where he and Merlin could just luxuriate in their happiness threatened to make him crumple with the pain growing in his chest.

Sometime later, after Merlin had relocated to the other side of the feast and settled next to his mother, asking again whether she’d let him heal her, Arthur excused himself from the quiet conversation that William had started with him as soon as Merlin left and headed for the house. He threw a glance over his shoulder and felt the anticipation inside him sharpen when Merlin glanced his way, his attention drawn to him in an instant. It was as though his master was attuned to him. Arthur looked away, his heart thumping, an anxious sweat breaking out on his palms as he fidgeted with the ends of his sleeves.

He wanted their last night together to be perfect.

He wanted it to be a night Merlin remembered for the rest of his life.

Arthur just wanted to be remembered for something more than the future waiting for him across the border.

His hand shook as he let himself into the house. He paced the main room like a caged animal until he heard soft footsteps approaching. Arthur turned to face the door, his heart pounding, and the door had barely shut behind Merlin before Arthur sprang forward like a hound released from its leash and ploughed into him. He drove his master up against the old door with force enough to make it groan in protest and rattle within its frame.

He crushed their lips together less than an instant later.

Hard.

Merlin flailed in surprise and thumped an elbow against a cupboard hard enough to break the kiss as Merlin cursed in pain. He seemed to stop breathing for a minute as Arthur wrenched himself away, his eager and determined expression falling, his face flaming with humiliation.

He’d ruined their night together before it had even started!

Arthur turned away, intending to put as much space between them as possible. A gentle hand darting out to snare his wrist stopped him in his tracks. His heart tried to punch a hole through his chest as Merlin tugged until Arthur faced him again.

“Don’t run away.” Merlin let his thumb slip beneath the end of his sleeve and rubbed the sensitive skin hidden there. Arthur swallowed a shiver, his stomach twisting. Hope blossomed inside him. Merlin smiled at him gently, his expression warm and encouraging, as though he’d forgotten the hard knock to his elbow already. “I know that didn’t go as you’d planned...but that doesn’t mean I want you to stop. It was an accident. We all have them. I happen to think accidents make a night more memorable.”

“Who wants to be remembered for making their...their special friend hurt themselves during their first kiss?”

“Did you just call me your special friend?”

“Shut up.” His face flamed even as Merlin started laughing, handsome blue eyes crinkling, his whole face warming with good humour and abundant affection. “You know what I meant!”

“I do,” Merlin breathed a minute later, the laughter easing, the good humour fading into something softer and sweeter. His hand slid higher and higher, slow and tender, his palm little more than a ghost as it skimmed over his sleeve before finding the soft skin of his neck. Arthur swallowed as Merlin caressed him. Calluses scraped against his neck and then his jaw, Merlin drawing him closer, and Arthur stared at plump lips now healed until Merlin leaned in to capture his mouth in a kiss. It was soft and tender; nothing like the kiss Merlin had received from Arthur, whose heart calmed at once. Tension eased out of his shoulders as Arthur sighed against his mouth. It was as though having Merlin kiss him like this was a balm to his anxious spirit – as though some part of him had been waiting for this moment his entire life. His eyes fluttered closed. The fingers of one hand curled around an upper arm and the others tangled in the laces of his tunic. It was so calming and so spellbinding that his lips parted in a startled gasp when a wet tongue grazed against him and asked for entry, the gentle touch alive with subtle hunger and need.

Kissing Merlin was awkward and clumsy, and Merlin would have detected his inexperience in an instant had Arthur never confessed to it before now. He had no idea what he was doing, but his...his _lover_ made him feel like he’d never have to. A soft moan escaped him when that familiar hand slipped up into his hair and those exquisite calluses dragged against his scalp. Merlin wrapped an arm around Arthur and crushed him still closer, as though just the sound of him moaning had inflamed Merlin.

Arthur broke the kiss to drag in a deep breath at the press of an eager manhood against his own. His grip tightened in an effort to steady himself: he was sure his knees would buckle soon. He and Merlin were kissing again a moment later, Arthur a fraction more confident and twice as skilled after the experience he’d gained with his lover, this man that had looked at him like he was worth more than the whole of Albion.

More than even the whole world.

The third kiss remained soft and tender, but grew deep and lingering, the soft flame of their mutual ardour encouraging them to treat this first night with patience and care: to let themselves luxuriate in their love after being denied for so long. His hands trembled as Arthur let them trail down to the belt strapped around the narrow waist that had tormented him for so long; his fingers fumbled with the buckle before Arthur managed at last to get the damned thing open. It dropped to the floor in an instant as his hands moved to grip the end of his tunic. Their kiss broke as Arthur swept the tunic up and over, his lover raising his arms obediently, eagerly, eyes darkening with hunger.

Merlin sucked in a sharp breath when Arthur stared down at the torso on show, his lips parting, his fingertips trailing through a thatch of dark hair decorating a pale abdomen that twitched inward at his touch. It overwhelmed him to touch Merlin. It overwhelmed him even more to see that familiar and foreign manhood straining against the confines of those trousers. He knew then what he wanted to taste first. His heart started thumping all over again. His palms sweating, Arthur dropped to his knees and reached for the boots that would prevent Merlin from ever being naked unless he used magic to make the clothes disappear. He fumbled with the laces and then pulled off the boots before reaching for those stockings that he knew enveloped those strong calves just right.

His mouth salivated just at the thought of them.

Arthur looked up when his hands at last found the laces securing those damned trousers in place.

His lover gripped the door frame now, almost hard enough to make the wood groan in protest. His slender and muscled chest heaving, Merlin stared down at him with no small amount of desire and open amazement that he’d do something so daring on their first night together when he knew Arthur hadn’t done this before. His hips bucked with the need for release almost as soon as his manhood tasted freedom. Chuckling nervously, and the roof of his mouth a little dry, Arthur dropped his gaze to the prize waiting for him now that those damned trousers were pooled around familiar feet and let his palms run over pale thighs.

Arthur heard a thump and hoped Merlin hadn’t hit his head too hard against the door, which rattled under the force of impact. He slid one hand up to grip a pale hip.

Arthur drew in a calming breath.

He’d done all the calculations before – his nerves just made it seem a harder task.

A gentle hand found his hair and tugged.

“You know, you don’t have to do this. I know you’ve never –”

“I want to.” Arthur did his best to reassure his lover, who was looking down at him again now, eyes still dark with want and also soft with concern. He squeezed the hip in his grasp. “I’ve wanted to do this for so long. Just...just give me a moment.”

Arthur shifted on the floor to relieve the tension in his knees and leaned closer, his mouth – still reddened from kissing Merlin just a few moments ago – coming within an inch of the manhood that almost looked painful in its hardness. His breath made it twitch and weep a single tear of familiar white fluid. He heard another thump. The immediate reaction emboldened him. Arthur lapped at that substance with his tongue and almost gasped at the sharp, salty, almost bitter flavour before lapping again. Merlin whimpered and twitched and Arthur kissed the head. He dipped down further to kiss the base before wrapping gentle fingers around it and running the flat of his tongue along the length of Merlin. He enveloped the head with his mouth and almost choked when his lover thrust forward instinctively, his hand tightening in his hair.

Thinking quickly, Arthur braced an arm across pale hips and forced Merlin back against the door. He drew away, eyes watering, and dragged in another calming breath. He took a moment to get his constricting throat back under control. Merlin mumbled an apology, his grip easing, his other hand coming to join the first.

Calluses dragged against his scalp.

Arthur moaned at the touch and leaned in again. Taking him into his mouth was easier the second time: his mouth was salivating now, wet and slick as his head sank down an inch and then another. He explored Merlin. He explored him with a slow eagerness that made Merlin whine and strain against the arm pinning him to the door, but Arthur refused to release him yet. The flat of his tongue slid along the length of Merlin with each bob of his head and swirled around the swollen head whenever Arthur drew back.

It wasn’t long until his jaw started aching, but Arthur kept going, making an effort to keep his numbing lips tight around him. Stroking the base of his arousal in time with the bobbing of his head proved to be more of a challenge than he expected...but he persevered until each movement was almost fluid. The hands in his hair tightened even further. Merlin croaked out curse after curse as Arthur worked him over; it sent a wave of satisfaction through Arthur, who was almost taken aback when Merlin tensed and arched with a choked cry, his manhood throbbing in his mouth before Merlin started spilling.

He seemed to spill for an eternity, and Arthur struggled to keep swallowing, the fluid thick in his throat. Arthur withdrew, his face twisting in a grimace as Merlin painted his skin with the last of his seed. It hit his cheek and his nose and dripped from his lip. He swallowed what remained in his mouth and coughed to clear his throat. The pale thighs in front of him quivered and threatened to give away; a prideful inferno scorched him as Arthur looked up to see Merlin gaping and panting, his head thrown back against the door, his skin flushed from forehead to pectoral muscles. A delighted grin bloomed across his face at the sight. His chest swelled with affection as Merlin lowered his head and stared down at him.

Hands and magic seized him a second later.

Merlin hauled him to his feet and pulled him closer, earning a laugh both awkward and pleased as Merlin lapped at his face and devoured the taste of his own seed with an enthusiasm that earned a fierce blush from Arthur. It wasn’t long until those tempting lips were trailing tender kisses across the curve of his aching jaw, moving up to his ear, wet and warm and soft as Merlin suckled on the lobe for a moment.

His knees almost buckled.

“I believe I’m at an unfair disadvantage.” The words ghosted across the shell of his ear and Arthur swallowed thickly, gripping at his lover with quiet desperation. A wave of magic swelled around him and his clothes ripped at the seams. His face flamed deeper as the remains dropped to the floor without ceremony, leaving him bare but for his boots and stockings. Another wave of power unlaced his boots and started tugging, earning a soft laugh as Arthur almost overbalanced when he raised his feet obediently, allowing the magic to remove his boots one at a time and then his stockings. Possessive hands touched him all the while: Merlin caressed his neck and jaw; the long line of his back. “Do you know how much of a tease you’ve been all this time?”

“I wasn’t doing it on purpose...most of the time.”

Arthur chuckled as Merlin huffed and hauled him closer, right up against the pale torso on display, those possessive hands sliding down to find the swell of his arse. He choked on a gasp. His hips rocked forward automatically, aching arousal sliding against pale skin damp with sweat. Merlin squeezed. His knees buckled. A third wave of magic enveloped him as Merlin heaved with his hands and Arthur wrapped his thighs around his waist immediately. Being carried across the main room as though he weighed nothing was bizarre and disorienting; Arthur buried his face against raven hair and wrapped his arms around his lover, squeezing his eyes shut and digging his fingers into pale skin with a quiet desperation that seemed to ebb and flow between them like the tide.

He heard Merlin slam the bedroom door open with another controlled burst of magic.

Merlin lowered him to the miserable excuse for a bed as though it were his own one back home in the royal chamber or even the one in the antechamber. His eyes fluttered open to see Merlin blanketing him. He and Merlin were kissing a moment later, slow and deep, his mouth feeling bruised and tender after pleasuring him. Arthur hummed with soft need as Merlin ran a gentle hand along his side and down his thigh. It ran back up again. His own hands clutched at raven hair for a moment and then started moving, caressing and clutching at each available inch of skin within reach as he and Merlin just luxuriated in the chance to touch and kiss and hold each other for the first time since their fateful meeting in that stupid corridor.

Having the chance to know Merlin now almost made him thankful that those guards and chambermaids had sent him on a wild goose chase through the damned castle.

Almost.

“How do you want this?” Merlin murmured the question some time later, nuzzling his face and cradling him gently; he was warm and loving around Arthur, who remained a little dazed from their long session of kissing, his thighs caressing pale hips just so. Arthur smiled up at him like an idiot. “Would you prefer to have me instead or...?”

His thighs tightened around Merlin.

“I want it like this.”

Arthur turned his face away, eyes fluttering closed and his face flaming, but shivered in pleasure when Merlin hummed in agreement against that spot just behind his ear. The sound vibrated through him. His stomach twisted with pleasure. He luxuriated in the touch of his lover, his breath hitching, Merlin starting to trail kisses and licks and bites along his skin. He shivered and writhed and moaned whenever Merlin paused over certain spots and decorated him with love bites. He wanted to be marked. He wanted to be owned before the night was through. Arthur was a shaking mess before Merlin ever gripped his thighs and raised them higher, pushing them up toward his chest and murmuring, “Hold them up for me.”

Nodding, his eyes watering, Arthur gripped himself above the knees and squeezed his eyes shut against the faint humiliation that burned through him. He dragged in a calming breath and then another, encouraging his rapid heartbeat to slow, encouraging his constricting throat to ease. He wanted this. He’d asked Merlin to make love with him and he was sure it was normal to be nervous.

His nerves were nothing to be ashamed of.

A soft moan escaped him when Merlin caressed the back of his sensitive thighs lovingly, his eyes snapping open to see him staring down at Arthur in soft wonder, his mouth curling in a warm smile.

But his eyes remained dark with desire.

Gold flared then and Arthur swallowed a surprised cry, his frame tensing, having felt a blazing surge of power sweep inside him without a single ounce of resistance. He wasn’t certain what that sweep of magic had been for, but he found it hard to care. Arthur stared up at his lover, who was smirking now, rubbing something slick across his pale fingers with his thumb. He stared and stared until Merlin shuffled forward. His eyes squeezed shut as Merlin ran a slick finger over that private place no one else had ever touched and then applied more pressure on the second sweep, earning a low moan and a shiver, Arthur tensing and relaxing beneath him in turn. His grip tightened around his thighs. He squirmed and twitched and writhed as Merlin rubbed him until he was almost incoherent with need.

Merlin knew just how to touch him. He knew how to get Arthur moaning, gasping and pleading, even when that first finger started pressing inside him. It burned at first and then flared into something else entirely, his lover wearing a smug smirk as Arthur opened up for him almost instinctively, the slick slide of one finger soon becoming two and then three an indeterminate amount of time later.

Arthur almost sobbed with relief and devastation when Merlin withdrew them completely, leaving him empty, his muscles trembling with the effort of keeping his thighs raised. His face and chest flaming with pleasure and hunger, Arthur watched him reach for the length standing hard and proud again between pale thighs.

Merlin slicked himself with a few lazy strokes – the knowing smile made it more than obvious that he knew how it affected him. How it made his heart jump into his throat with eagerness.

Arthur watched Merlin reclaim one trembling thigh and let his head fall back onto the poor excuse for a pillow as Merlin spread his thighs wider, shuffling still closer, the head of his flushed arousal pressing against his slick and eager taint. Merlin steadied himself with his other hand. His breath caught as Merlin pushed against him. He felt it when his taint welcomed his lover, slick and hungry, spreading wider as Merlin sank inch after inch inside him. Arthur choked upon a sob: it felt as though something had snapped into place between them as Merlin sank as deep as he could with a hoarse groan and stilled. He braced an arm against the bed and stared down at Arthur, his darkened eyes blown wide with shock and panting, another layer of sweat building with the effort of holding himself back.

Arthur stared right back.

He knew that Merlin felt it – that ebb and flow of power that developed between him and his lover, the waves of magic washing through him with gentle fervour and lapping at the shore inside him before sweeping back out. Just to sweep back in a moment later.

Merlin trembled above him.

Swallowing, his chest heaving, Arthur cupped his face with one hand and slipped the other through raven hair now damp with sweat. He pulled Merlin down and lifted his own head for a kiss: long and slow and deep, Merlin licking into his mouth with familiar and gentle fervour, devouring the sigh of pleasure that escaped him when pale hips started rocking between his spread thighs. Merlin matched his tempo to that ebb and flow of power. His hands roamed. His calluses slid against skin damp with sweat. His palms roamed over long lines and thick curves and made Arthur shiver, his own hands sliding down over a pale back that rippled with each deep movement.

The kiss broke far too soon and Merlin withdrew, bracing both of his muscled arms against the bed now, his expression dissolving into something almost euphoric as he and Arthur continued to rock together, the former grunting and groaning with exertion and pleasure while the latter moaned and sighed. Each slow rock of their hips in tandem had Merlin rubbing against the arousal trapped between them. His abdomen tightened with pleasure. It coiled inside him. It wrapped around his bones over and over, coiling tighter and tighter, and Arthur turned his heated face away, moaning into the pillow. He raised his thighs higher, hugged that pale frame tighter, and that simple and minute change in angle as Merlin rocked inside him made lightning arc across his vision.

His mouth opened around a hoarse cry, invoking the name of his lover, who moaned and demanded that he invoke it again. So Arthur did. He said his name over and over, his voice growing more hoarse and desperate with each deep thrust from Merlin.

Lightning arced across his vision again and again. It threatened to blind him as that coiling pleasure continued to build inside him.

His toes curled.

Tears of pleasure that had welled when Merlin first sank inside him spilled over, one tear sliding down his face at a time. It soaked his skin and made his mouth taste of salt. A few tears slipped down into his ears to make them wet and uncomfortable. But he didn’t care. Nothing mattered next to that ebb and flow of power between him and his lover, that growing coil of ecstasy.

His hand trembled as it slid up to grip raven hair, loving and possessive because Merlin was his. Merlin was his just as he belonged to Merlin in return.

It was and wasn’t a surprise when Arthur peaked beneath his lover, his pleasure not crashing through him but flowing, flooding his extremities as his spine arched up from the miserable excuse for a bed.

Merlin followed him into oblivion a moment or so later, his rhythm stuttering once...twice...thrice. A low moan escaped Merlin as his arousal throbbed and throbbed within Arthur, buried deep inside him.

His seed spilled hot within him.

Arthur went limp beneath his lover when he came down at last from that exquisite height. Merlin slipped free with a faint grimace and then collapsed on top of Arthur, his face pressing against the neck on display, the pair panting together. Both of them were as dazed as the other, overwhelmed from their lovemaking, from the weight of what he and Merlin had done together. Arthur ran absentminded fingers along a trembling arm. Merlin brushed a kiss against one of the countless love bites he’d left earlier; it sent a dull throb through him and earned another soft moan. His limp manhood attempted to twitch in interest and gave up at once: it was too tired and sensitive to the point of pain now, each heaving breath from Merlin almost hurting him. But he wasn’t going to complain. He wasn’t going to ruin this.

Merlin raised his head eventually, leaning in to draw him into a kiss both aching and tender, his mouth reddened and swollen. It lasted less than a moment before Merlin pressed their brows together, eyes squeezing shut. A shiver rippled through him and then through Arthur in the same tired sweep. His lover dropped his head back to his chest. Arthur heaved in breath after breath as his heart slowed and his skin cooled and his eyes grew heavier, his thick frame feeling so much more than exhausted in the wake of that tide of pleasure.

He almost missed Merlin mumbling that he loved him.

Arthur blinked through his exhaustion and lifted what felt like an enormous head to gaze at mussed raven hair; Merlin was snoring already, his warm breath ghosting across his cooling skin. His heart gave a sluggish leap and tripped over itself. His head fell back into the pillow.

He’d tell him in the morning.

He’d tell him everything.

In the morning.    


	31. Chapter Thirty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains a sexual act that mightn't be agreeable to everyone.
> 
> So, if you start to get squicked, feel free to keep scrolling until it looks safe. 
> 
> As always, feel free to let me know what you think!!

The arrival of morning found Arthur sprawled across his lover, face resting against a warm chest and gazing at the sunlight creeping across the floor, heading toward them with determination. His heart splintered at the sight. Turning his face away, Arthur pressed a kiss against the sternum on offer, his mouth curling in a heartbroken smile as Merlin slept on beneath him. He looked so innocent and young, so carefree – as though all his worries had melted out of existence when Merlin took him to bed the night before. Arthur pressed another kiss against his sternum just for good measure. He started inching away from his lover, doing his best not to wake him – Merlin deserved to sleep for as long as he wanted after the pleasure he’d stoked within Arthur, who ached with each movement he made as he crawled towards the end of the bed. He froze when the bed shifted behind him and then Merlin was humming, a note of approval low in his throat.

“Beautiful.”

“Shut up.” His face flamed. “I’m not beautiful: I’m just covered in you.”

“That just makes you twice as beautiful. You know, you need to just accept the fact that the sight of you drives me wild. I know you can’t understand what makes you so captivating, but just accept it. It might help you believe it in the future.” Merlin loomed up behind him and exquisite memories flashed through him when Merlin cupped his backside with possessive hands. He bit his lip. His head hung low and his mouth gaped around a silent moan as Merlin spread his buttocks apart with gentle thumbs: his skin seemed twice as sensitive as usual. His manhood twitched with interest and hardened in no time at all. “You alright? You’re looking more swollen than I expected.”

“I’m fine.” His face flaming deeper, Arthur glanced over his shoulder, his expression underscored with remembered want. He watched Merlin moisten his lips with a sweep of his tongue. His manhood throbbed with desire and a bead of his seed swelled to drop down upon the bedclothes. His voice quivered. Arthur turned his face away, his wrists threatening to give way; a shiver ran through him. “I’m aching, but I...I like it.”

“I’ll have to make sure you’re fine – just so we know for sure. We can’t risk you being injured when we’ll be making the trek home soon.” The words escaped on a murmur, Merlin releasing his backside and shuffling closer, leaning over him to tease a kiss against the nape of his neck and then another between his shoulder blades. Merlin moved lower and lower along the curve of his back and those possessive hands caressed his sides with pressure enough to get Arthur squirming, his thick thighs trembling, a broken noise escaping him when that familiar surge of power swept across his belly, thighs and taint before sweeping inside him for the second time since he’d kissed Merlin the night before. His back arched under the influence of that invasive magic. Yet more beads of his seed hit the bedclothes beneath him. Merlin ran a gentle hand along his back as those damned lips pressed a kiss against the curve of his hip. He smiled against his skin. “I love how sensitive you are. The slightest thing is enough to get you going; I’m going to have so much fun with you.”

“You’re a bastard.”

“And you’re rude.”

Merlin bit the swell of his buttock and Arthur almost went weak at the wrists. He shifted until his forearms braced against the bedclothes. His lover hummed in approval as Arthur spread his thighs wider, doing his best to keep his balance. The blanket felt rough against his knees. His heart jumped into his throat when Merlin gripped his buttocks all over again and parted them before a hot breath ghosted over his taint. Arthur could almost feel the smug bastard smirking, thumbs caressing the sensitive skin on either side of his taint as he waited until Arthur started squirming, each warm breath sending a teasing tendril of pleasure through him. It wasn’t enough in the least. However, the first long sweep of a warm and wet tongue earned a startled shout and Arthur jerked away, his arousal throbbing, his heart pounding and attempting to punch a hole through its new home in his throat. Merlin pulled him right back and chuckled in fond amusement before licking him again.

Arthur cursed.

His mouth gaped around a low moan a moment later, his forehead crushed against the bedclothes and his hands fisting them. His abdomen tightened. It wasn’t long until his hips started rocking, pushing back against his lover, and his face flaming with desire and embarrassment as Merlin made a slick mess of him. That clever tongue stroked and swirled and prodded and then start wriggling, having its wicked way, slicking him and opening him up for future pursuits – which became apparent when Merlin eased two fingers slick with that conjured oil inside him simultaneously, the touch rough and demanding; nothing like the slow and tender exploration the night before. Arthur choked on the sob that developed in his throat. His eyes started watering, tears spilling, hot coils of pleasure building low in his abdomen and winding around his spine.

Merlin bit the swell of his buttock again and continued to take him apart with each experienced plunge of his callused fingers.

It wasn’t a surprise when Arthur peaked beneath his lover before Merlin could slide his slick arousal inside. Merlin shuffled closer and buried his face against the nape of his neck as he started laughing, possessive arms winding around Arthur, who panted and trembled beneath him. Calluses dragged across skin damp with sweat. His arousal slipped between his buttocks and grazed his sensitive taint just as Merlin found a vulnerable nipple and tweaked it hard enough to earn a hoarse groan. It was Arthur that reached back for his lover, hand trembling, fumbling to grip the length teasing him.

“Eager, are we?”

“Shut up, you bastard. Just get...get...”

“Get?”

“You know what I want!”

Merlin hummed his agreement against the nape of his neck and pressed a tender kiss before pulling away, though not entirely; his hips were still flush against the swell of his backside. The hand sliding back and forth along the curve of his back was soothing.

It took seconds to slide inside. Arthur shuddered through pleasure bordering pain and sobbed as Merlin sank all the way, possessive hands claiming the curve of his hips and gripping tight. His own hands fisted the bedclothes. Another sob escaped him when Merlin drew back and then slammed back inside Arthur, the wetness squelching, lewd in the morning sunshine. His lover cursed. Merlin drew back and slammed in again. He slammed in over and over, each thrust punctuated with a sharp grunt or a curse or even a garbled compliment that Arthur couldn’t quite grasp as each one punched out sob after sob.

The ebb and flow of power that had lapped at the shore hidden inside him the night before was a violent torrent now, storming, raging, crashing against him and threatening to drown him. It was wild and untameable. It was terrifying, and Arthur loved each and every damned second. He loved it when magic wrapped around him in a strong embrace and pulled him up from the mattress. He loved it when Merlin crushed him close against his chest and the angle changed and his manhood started throbbing, hard again and so much more than hungry, desperate to be touched.

As though he knew what Arthur was thinking, Merlin wrapped an arm around him and gripped his arousal with a slick hand. Just two strokes were enough to make him peak all over again.

Arthur collapsed against the miserable excuse for a bed and Merlin followed him an instant later, sprawling across his back and panting, his face pressing against the nape of his neck. He sucked in breath after breath and relished the weight of Merlin on top of him. He relished the blazing inferno he and Merlin had become. Arthur tangled their fingers together and brought the hand that hadn’t been inside him to his mouth. He pressed a tremulous kiss against each of the fingertips.

“How did you become so perfect?”

“I was born with endless raw talent.”

Arthur panted through his laughter, cursed and buried his face in the bedclothes while Merlin started laughing against the nape of his neck. He managed to get control of himself eventually, and raised his head to say, his voice still hoarse and his throat a bite sore from their rough lovemaking, “Diagnosis?”

“Huh?”

“About me being injured. Idiot.”

“Ask me again after the second examination. I think I had my eyes closed.”

Arthur started laughing again.

His good humour, however, was never destined to last for much longer. It ebbed gradually, receding alongside the adrenaline that had been pumping through his veins. Its absence left Arthur with a hollow ache deep within his chest as Merlin continued to press exhausted kisses across the span of his shoulders. Over the knotted scars decorating his back. His gentle hand stroked over one of the spots where both of them knew a bruise would soon develop. Relieved that Merlin couldn’t see his heart breaking, Arthur buried his face deeper into the bedclothes and soaked up the last time he’d ever get to be alone with the man he loved again.

“Arthur?” Merlin stilled behind him and touched his shoulder, his warm voice soft with concern. His hand shook a little where it gripped him. “Are you alright? You know I was joking, don’t you?”

“I’m fine.” Arthur glanced over his shoulder and did his best to don a reassuring smile for his concerned lover, though he knew the expression missed the mark. He knew when Merlin started searching his face for something, some hint as to what was happening with Arthur now, his eyes growing sorrowful and his mouth turning down with doubt and uncertainty. Arthur hastened to turn over, relieved when Merlin let him do so, and cupped his face with a gentle hand. “Don’t you dare think that I regretted this for even a moment. I love you so much. I wouldn’t change a thing about what we’ve done.”

“Arthur,” whispered his lover, “you’re scaring me.”

“I know,” answered Arthur, rising up and forcing Merlin to back away, bracing himself against the bed beneath him with one hand as he shifted on his sore backside until he was as comfortable as he could be. He could feel the seed from inside him oozing out to stain the bedclothes. His heart tried to punch a hole out through his chest as Merlin stared at him in concern and no small amount of fear. He could feel the tears returning, building right in front of Merlin and stinging, blurring his vision in no time at all. His hoarse voice broke. “I know I am. I’m sorry; I can’t help it. I wanted to tell you so much sooner, but you told me to wait and I’ve been waiting, and I’ve been struggling to figure out how to tell you when the time came. But I’ve come to realise there is no easy way; there isn’t a magic moment during which I can tell you and not see your heart break.”

The immediate silence that fell was broken when Merlin’s stomach gave a loud and irritable demand for food and Arthur choked back an almost hysterical burst of laughter, his chest tightening as he scrambled up from the bed at once.

“Arthur –”

“Stay,” he barked immediately, his growing hysteria coming out as anger, his tone sharp enough to make Merlin reel back as though he’d been slapped. Hurt flickered across his features. Arthur tried his best to gentle his voice and soften the unintended blow he’d just given his lover. “You need to eat. I’ll be back as quick as I can.”

“Arthur!”

“Just let me take care of you first. I need to do this. Please.”

Arthur bolted out the door and slammed it shut behind him. He hurtled for the torn clothes left in the wake of their lovemaking the previous night and gripped the crystal around his neck tightly, the force of his will power sending the magic out to mend them. He was dressed and out the front door fast enough to break a record. Arthur sprinted through the village and found himself knocking on William’s door, his fist pounding against the wood until the yawning man wrenched it open with an irritated scowl.

“His Highness is hungry,” Arthur explained immediately, the barrel of his chest heaving, his face hot with exertion.

“Not surprised.” William rolled his eyes and stepped aside. “You were going at it loud enough to wake the dead. You know, those walls aren’t impenetrable to sound!”

Arthur looked away, his face draining of colour, his heart ripping in two. He pushed past the cantankerous friend he’d managed to make during the battle for Ealdor and hastened to one of the cupboards. He took one loaf of bread out of the two that stared at him from within the cupboard. His hands shook as he gripped it.

“You know, for someone who spent so long rutting with his lover, you look an awful lot like a corpse warmed over. What on earth is wrong with you? Did you have a fight with him or something?”

“No.” Arthur moved on to another, rooting through its contents until his hand emerged with two apples on the smaller side. It would do for now; Merlin could hunt during the trek home: his sword had been recovered from the ground outside and cleaned of blood and his crossbow had as well. The sword Arthur had stolen from Tom had also been found and cleaned. Not that it mattered. He’d never get to see Tom or his brother again – at least not from somewhere other than the confines of a noose or the executioner’s block. His eyes watered at the thought. Arthur drew in a sharp breath and ignored the light hand that touched his arm in concern. “Is Gwen still sleeping?”

“Nah. Lady Hunith went out to visit her old husband’s grave and Gwen took off after her when she heard. Honestly, she looked a bit stressed. Cursed my damned ear off in the process! Your sister got a problem with crossing the border too soon or something?”

The apples toppled to the floor. The loaf followed less than an instant later, Arthur whirling around to say, “When did she leave?”

“Which?”

“Both!”

“I don’t know? I wasn’t running on a full stomach at the time. I’d say ten minutes for Gwen? Fifteen minutes or so for Lady Hunith? Hey, where are you going –?!”

Arthur offered no answer, knowing there was no time to spare. He had precious seconds to reach Merlin and order him to get dressed. He had seconds more to send him out after Lady Hunith – to bring her back to the village and into safety, where she wouldn’t be alone and unprotected should the men King Bayard would have sent to find him be stationed in the Forest of Ascetir; the perfect place to set up an unexpected ambush for the unknowing. He burst through the front door and then through the bedroom door, only to see Merlin almost fall out of the bed with the force of some pain growing in his head. His hand clutched at his forehead as Merlin gaped around a silent scream.

“Mother,” his lover managed to choke out in fear, scrambling past him to reach his discarded clothes and weapons. Arthur knew then that Merlin must have had a spell in place to alert him whenever his mother was endangered. He knew that his own fears hadn’t been unfounded: men were waiting within the Forest of Ascetir, and Merlin meant to face them without knowing the truth. Without knowing that those men would belong to the King of Camelot and Mercia. Without knowing that Arthur was to blame. 

“Merlin –”

“It can wait!”

“It can’t!”

Merlin shoved him back with a wild burst of magic when Arthur tried to grab his wrist and he hit the floor, the impact jarring, and his tongue throbbing where his teeth almost bit through it. His lover vanished within a violent storm of wind and blinding arcs of lightning more frightening than the ones he’d seen when Merlin found the King intending to strangle him back in Camelot. Arthur choked on a sob and the taste of his own blood as he scrambled to his feet.

He ran.

He was still running when he heard a pained shout in the distance.

He ran harder, muscles abused from their rough lovemaking burning, his lungs struggling to draw in adequate breath. He had to reach Merlin. He had to reach Merlin before someone came to the conclusion that he’d released Arthur, that he’d let him go. It took Arthur just under ten minutes to burst through the tree line at full sped. His muscles were screaming now, but Arthur cared about none of that as he slowed to a stop and raised his hands in immediate surrender.

Gwen and Lady Hunith were bound already, both women pinioned against broad chests clad in chainmail and a selection of plate armour, dangerous blades pressed flush against the vulnerable necks on display; Merlin was thrashing under the weight of five strong Knights. Blood cascaded down his face from a gash on his forehead. His hands were bound behind his back with familiar manacles designed to restrain his magic. Another pair had been fastened around his ankles for good measure. His eyes were flickering, his powerful magic struggling against the strong bonds holding it at bay, struggling to rise up and break out to eviscerate the men holding him and his mother captive.

Men he’d trained and fought beside.

Men he’d thought he could trust never to turn on him.

Merlin thrashed even harder when he saw Arthur, managing to dislodge one Knight before two more took his place in a single heartbeat. His enraged expression morphed into the purest agony, his eyes welling with emotion as he watched Councillor Ares approach Arthur, stiff and stately, his robes pristine and his staff clutched in a confident grip. Only his eyes confessed to his regret before his expression shuttered. Councillor Ares stared at Arthur for a long moment and then nodded to the mages flanking him: two of them seized a shoulder and shoved Arthur to his knees without a word. Merlin sobbed his name as Arthur went down without a fight and with his head held high.

What was the point of fighting?

He’d earned this outcome. He’d taken up a sword willingly, knowing it was forbidden. He’d fled for the border of his own volition. It never mattered that he’d intended to help people that couldn’t help themselves. If anything, that would make the King consider him twice the threat to the realm and his position on the throne. Knowing that the laws governing his life no longer cowed Arthur would make King Bayard twice as eager to have him executed before Arthur could muster whatever scraps of courage lived inside him and drive himself towards the point of open defiance. Towards the point of joining Morgana Pendragon in her open rebellion against the King.

His truest regret was that he hadn’t convinced Gwen to remain behind – to pretend that she’d never seen him in the forge. That she’d never witnessed Arthur stealing the sword from Tom. He couldn’t bear to see her executed for his mistake. He’d intended to convince her to stay in Ealdor, to remain outside the jurisdiction of the hateful man that would see Gwen executed for aiding and abetting Arthur in his flight from Camelot and Mercia.

Arthur stared at his lover, who stood witness to the brief flicker of heartbreak and regret before he donned another expression altogether, tearing his gaze away. Merlin witnessed the resignation make an appearance as his hands were wrenched behind his back and manacles were clicked into place around his wrists. He witnessed the two mages step away, a Knight coming forward to replace them at each shoulder, using excessive force to haul Arthur to his feet. Arthur swallowed his pained grunt and managed to remain standing despite the threat of his knees giving away, the muscles across his frame trembling something fierce in the wake of his exertion.

Councillor Ares pulled Merlin to his feet with a great deal more care as Merlin stopped reacting, his frame going limp at last as he stared at Arthur, who avoided looking at him as the group closed in around him. His chest tightened with panic that Arthur refused to let show; he wouldn’t give King Bayard the satisfaction of seeing him break down in front of the assembled court.

A mage wrapped their arms around each of the Knights.

The magic swelled around the group and it felt wrong, the numerous magical signatures overlapping each other, thick and cloying; none of them were the warm waves that belonged to Merlin. It gave Arthur the faintest flicker of a headache before the winds surged around them and whisked them away, the mages transporting them across the large distance in short bursts until the group stumbled into being at the end of the throne room and the mages threatened to collapse from exhaustion.

Councillor Ares was the one mage that remained unaffected from teleporting, having taken two much larger jumps to reach their shared final destination. His thick and intricate braid hung down between his shoulder blades. He urged Merlin forward with a commanding hand against his back.

The court and the few rows of townspeople gathered to witness the trial were dead silent as Councillor Ares and the bound Crown Prince of Camelot and Mercia led the procession through the throne room without a word.

Sir Lamorak and Ninianne stood at the front of the crowd.

Sir Tor stood alongside them.

All three were as pale as sheets.

The court watched as Merlin fell to his knees before the King, his back curving, his noble brow now ashen with fear pressing against the cool floor. His welling tears never fell to darken stone as the others were forced to their knees beside him in quick succession. The nearest to him was Arthur, who refused to tremble even as King Bayard rose from his throne and approached his lover, imperious and frightening, his malice rolling from his frame in the thickest waves Arthur had ever experienced since the abuse had started.

“Did you ever intend to go to the Mercian capital or was it just a ruse designed to help him flee the border,” the King asked quietly, his frostbitten gaze fastened upon his silent nephew, who’d struggled out of his much deeper bow. “Well? What have you to say for yourself?”

“He never fled the border, Your Majesty.” Merlin gazed up at the King, expression beseeching, his hands limp and loose behind his back. His narrow chest heaved in distress as Merlin tried to convince the King of his innocence. Arthur swallowed and stared at nothing as the lie continued without an ounce of hesitation. “I forced Arthur across the border; he was unwilling the entire time. I’d intended to take him with me to the Mercian capital once I’d finished helping Ealdor with their bandit problem. It would be unlawful and immoral to punish Arthur Pendragon for the laws I chose to break.”

The slap came like lightning, the crack of flesh against flesh loud and sharp as the force of the blow sent Merlin sprawling, coughing around a mouthful of blood as his lover spat out a tooth. Arthur surged to his feet and threw himself at the King with a bellow of rage. Councillor Ares fisted his hair before Arthur could even get close to him and wrenched him back hard enough to send pain searing across his scalp; the pain almost failed to register as the damned mage forced him back to his knees. All he could think about was tearing the man that struck Merlin to pieces. Several bands of magic seized him and adhered him to the stone floor as shock rippled through the court at the open display of violence against the Crown Prince of Camelot and Mercia.

None were shocked at how Arthur had been treated: regardless of who knelt before the King, the act of attacking the King of Camelot and Mercia would earn the use of force in return.

That cardinal rule was the same in all realms.

King Bayard loomed over Arthur, snarling, “You needn’t be hasty; I’ll deal with you in a minute.” He turned his attention back to his nephew, one of the exhausted mages having helped Merlin back up onto his knees before the King. Arthur looked askance at his lover and swallowed a growl as Merlin swallowed a mouthful of his own blood. “You know, I might have believed your account had a witness not stepped forward to tell me quite another tale. He claimed to have encountered Arthur Pendragon and Guinevere Smyth while the pair intended to leave the lower town two nights ago – armed.”

Merlin tensed beside him and yet he never glanced at Arthur, never condemned him with an injured stare. Not even as the double doors opened behind them to admit the witness mentioned. Arthur stared down at the floor, his stomach churning, and the weight of that smug stare carving holes into the back of his head. He wanted to wrap his arms around Merlin and protect him from whatever punishment waited for them...but he couldn’t. He couldn’t even turn his head to stare Jeffrey down as the cruel bastard approached with a quiet eagerness. His lover remained silent as the footsteps approached at a quick pace. Arthur knew that clever head was whirring, his mind racing through a multitude of thoughts and ideas that might have a chance of sparing Arthur and his adoptive sister, his mother and himself.

“Jeffrey, Your Majesty?” The scoffing note in his voice was plain as Merlin stared up at the King, his expression still open and beseeching despite the blood staining his mouth. “I doubt his account can be trusted. His inexplicable vendetta against Arthur Pendragon is common knowledge in the lower town. Who knows what he might tell you to manipulate events in his favour?”

“Who knows what you might tell me to manipulate them in yours? We all know how fond you are of Arthur Pendragon.” King Bayard flicked his attention from nephew to Arthur and stared down at him in growing anger, his eyes darkening, his hand twitching as if to reach for the blade suspended from his belt. He looked back at Merlin. “Don’t think you can outwit me. You need to remember, boy, that I was navigating political storms before you were even born.”

The apple in his throat bobbed as Merlin swallowed.

King Bayard released an infuriated sigh and looked away, turning his attention upon each of the prisoners in turn. His gaze settled on Lady Hunith last. It was a surprise when he gestured for her to be released from her manacles. She rose to her feet hesitantly, clutching a wrist that looked tender and sore close to her chest. Lady Hunith looked at her son and then up at the King, her gaze tentative and questioning.

“Return to your rooms.” The order was quiet and deadly, leaving no room for argument. But his gaze was almost sympathetic. “You chose to keep your Essetian citizenship when you relocated to Camelot. You have the right to move between the realms as you will and so your actions have no bearing upon these proceedings. Go.”

Lady Hunith hesitated and then started moving, two Knights leading her away, their presence insistent beside her. She looked at Merlin and Arthur and swallowed before disappearing from view; her husband and daughter remained to watch the proceedings as the previous tableau continued once the doors swung closed behind Lady Hunith.

“You’ve left me with no choice now, Merlin.” King Bayard looked at his nephew, his cruel eyes softening and starting to water despite his continued anger. He spared no hateful glance for Arthur. “It would shatter me to see you dead and yet I can’t leave your crimes against the throne go unpunished. Your lifelong hatred is a burden I’m willing to bear to spare your life. Bring in the Eancanah.”

Arthur wasn’t certain what that sentence meant. He’d never come across the term during his study, but Councillor Ares recoiled behind him at once and took an immediate step back from the King. All the mages and the various practitioners of magic in attendance reacted the same way, Ninianne and Gaius in particular. Arthur looked askance at his lover to see Merlin drained of all emotions but the purest terror, looking like little more than a corpse warmed over, and Arthur knew whatever the sentence had been was the worst thing in existence. Worse even than seeing Arthur executed in the courtyard. Arthur looked up at the King, who now wept openly, and he knew that the harshest punishment waited for him in the otherworld. The High Queen of the Fae would never leave such a cruel man go unpunished. But it was little comfort as Merlin broke down beside him and began pleading for death instead of whatever this imminent punishment was.

Two Knights carried forth an ornate chest decorated with runes from the Old Religion and set it down before the King, backing away quickly, faces pale. The pair avoided looked at Merlin – who begged and begged for one of them to run him through before this punishment could be enacted. Ninianne sobbed next to her father, hiding her face against his middle as he wrapped an arm around her. Sir Lamorak looked like he’d throw up in a heartbeat. Arthur looked around in growing panic. He needed to know what was happening now, to know what sort of punishment could be so much worse than death to his lover, but no one would look at him. No one would whisper even the vaguest explanation. Councillor Ares stepped forward again to grip his shoulder and Arthur tipped his head as far back as he could to catch the barest glimpse of his expression: the experienced mage was weeping, his tears silent and laced with devastation.

Arthur lowered his head to watch the King.

His heart jumped into his throat and pounded.

More and more mages started weeping as King Bayard crouched and opened the chest. The vicious hissing made him think of snakes at first. However, the wriggling creature that King Bayard pulled from the chest was nothing like a serpent. If anything, it was more like an enormous black slug, hissing and struggling, straining to get free to complete whatever dark purpose it was created for. King Bayard approached Merlin slowly; the man wept even more as Merlin struggled to get away, thrashing against the men holding him down now, struggling to escape the uncle he’d loved.

“It’ll be over soon.”

“No,” Merlin moaned in desperation as the Knights surrounding him applied more force and he fell still but for mindless twitching, his hands clenching and unclenching behind his back. His eyes squeezed shut around tears that kept falling. He moaned in desperation once more.

The King, however, kept coming forward until less than an inch remained between the shimmering slug creature and his nephew. Arthur watched the creature jerk forward in his grasp and latch onto his lover, his own face paling, fearing the outcome in store for Merlin. He feared for his soul. He feared for the beautiful mind and heart dwelling within the shell of flesh now jerking, twitching, hands struggling hard against the manacles keeping his wrists pinned. Pale skin tore. Blood spilled to stain the back of his trousers and then the stone floor beneath Merlin.

It was over in less than a minute.

It took two hands and an impossible amount of effort for the King to prise the Eancanah from where it had attached itself to the Crown Prince of Camelot and Mercia.

Merlin was a listless lump now, unmoving and unresponsive as King Bayard put the struggling Eancanah back in the chest and sealed it inside. Arthur croaked his name. His lover turned his head slowly, his expression robbed of the spark that once made him seem so alive. His heart ripped down the middle as Merlin turned his face away, the movement just as slow, head tilting as a distant roar rippled through the citadel: the sound of an ancient dragon grieving.


	32. Chapter Thirty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should have been finished and posted sooner, but I've struggled a lot over this holiday period. My head hasn't been in a great place. 
> 
> Please note: This chapter mentions a scene similar to one in the show. 
> 
> As always, feel free to let me know what you think.

It was cold in the dungeon.

Arthur curled up in the corner, the threadbare blanket rough against his sensitive skin. His shaking fingers kept rubbing over the spot where his crystal should have been. It felt strange to be without it. It felt stranger to be without his lover, who’d been disarmed and released from his manacles and sent over to Sir Tor, who’d caught and supported him at once as the Crown Prince of Camelot and Mercia buckled at the loss of that power that had been his companion since he’d been a small child. His eyes squeezed shut at the thought of Merlin. His lover had broken through his listlessness when Arthur and Gwen had been sentenced to burn at the stake on the morrow – a fate the pair shared with their elder brother, who’d been beaten bloody, beaten until he’d confessed his previous suspicions about Arthur, and was then sentenced to death for failing to warn the King. The pair had been hauled down through the throne room. Merlin had closed the distance between them and crushed himself against Arthur, his hands rough and desperate in his hair, his mouth hot and hard and salty, wet with the tears he’d shed and the blood he’d lost with his tooth. The kiss had lasted less than an instant as a surge of Knights hauled him away, struggling to keep him at bay, Merlin thrashing with a violence that outstripped even the desperate struggle he’d shown earlier, promising him that it wasn’t over.

That it couldn’t be.

That it wasn’t possible.

That he and Arthur still had so much left to do.

That the Gods would never dangle such a future in front of them and then rip it away, rob them of it before it could ever be accomplished.

Arthur swallowed the sob that developed in his chest and turned his face from the memory, wanting to forget the heartbreak he’d seen. Wanting to forget how Sir Tor had hauled Merlin out of the Knights’ grasp and against his chest. How he’d buried a gloved hand in raven hair as Merlin clung to him and sobbed into his shoulder. Wanting to forget how Tom had broken down at the back of the throne room and sank down on the stone floor, Deorwynn stroking a shaking hand over his balding head.

“Arthur?”

The voice cracked from weeping caught his attention at once.

Arthur looked across the dungeon corridor and noticed that his adoptive siblings were awake now, the pair sharing a cell while he’d been consigned to one of his own. The two had wept themselves to sleep earlier, wrapped around each other, and he’d been left with an ache in his chest. He couldn’t help the twist of his heart now as Elyan and Gwen shuffled forward and clutched the bars of their cell. Gwen supported their elder brother with a gentle arm around his tender middle.

“What?” Arthur turned his face away, unable to look at the people he’d condemned with his own reckless actions. Bitterness rose in his throat and tainted his tongue. “Going to tell me how all this is because of me? You can save your breath. I’m miles ahead of you.”

“You need to stop wallowing,” his elder brother slurred through his weariness and blood loss. The words snapped his attention back upon Elyan. Elyan fastened his bloodied eye upon Arthur, the other one swollen shut. A gash decorated his cheek where a gauntlet must have struck him. “You’re letting him win. You need to hold on to that defiance burning inside you and never let go.”

“Why? What would be the point? I’m going to die tomorrow; the King _has_ won.”

“He hasn’t.” Elyan tightened his grip around the bars of his cell and pressed his damaged face against the cool iron. His one working eye closed for a moment and then snapped open again. He stared at Arthur, a multitude of emotions rippling across his wounded face in rapid succession. “He wasn’t won until we’re ashes. Get up. Look out the through the grate.”

Arthur sighed and rose from the floor, giving his adoptive siblings an unimpressed stare even as Gwen gave him an encouraging smile in return. A smile he’d never deserve for what he’d consigned her to. He drew the threadbare blanket tighter around him. He moved over to the small grate situated overhead and looked around for something to stand on before realising he’d have to be a little inventive. Arthur tossed the blanket aside with another sigh and backed away, backed up until his back pressed against the bars of his own cell. His mind started whirring, running through the calculations he needed. He drew in a deep breath to calm nerves still reeling from what he’d witnessed in the throne room and a heart still aching from the taste of salt and copper he’d licked from his lip. He let the breath back out and bolted across the dungeon cell – he used the short burst of momentum he’d managed to build and the push of a well-placed boot against the stone wall to push himself up enough to latch onto the shallow sill. His fingers dug into the stone as he heaved his head and shoulders up enough to peer through it before crashing back to the floor, where Arthur laid panting, his abused muscles screaming and his once broken bones protesting.

But he’d seen enough.

His heart hammered in his chest.

Arthur couldn’t understand what the townspeople were doing, or what their actions were meant to accomplish. He couldn’t understand why any one of them would stand vigil in the courtyard and raise a burning candle. He wasn’t important. He was nothing without Merlin – even Fate knew that much. Merlin was meant to be the one guiding him toward his destiny, that shining future where all people were equal and none mattered more than another, regardless of creed or gender, regardless of whose blood or whatever scrap of magic flowed through their veins. And now Merlin was robbed of what he’d considered the most precious. Because of him. Arthur curled in on himself and swallowed past the lump growing in his throat. Fingers sore from digging into stone scraped against yet more stone as he clung to memory of that last kiss from his lover, clung to the knowledge that Merlin still loved him despite what he’d caused. Merlin still loved him enough to kiss him in front of the King.

His vision blurred.

Elyan called his name again.

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and a tear slipped free. He ignored his adoptive brother. He couldn’t bear to listen to his platitudes about hope. There was nothing to hope for: the flames would lick at his flesh before the sun reached its zenith. Fortunately, the smoke that would billow into his face would kill him before the flames would get the chance. It wasn’t much comfort. His throat constricted at the thought of Merlin being forced to watch the executioner set him alight...at the thought of Tom standing in the crowd and watching, watching King Bayard execute his children.

Gwen said his name suddenly, the sound sharp and fearful on her tongue an instant before the lock on his cell door clicked open and the iron swung. Arthur scrambled to his feet and whirled around to see the King – more than a little drunk and staggering – cross the threshold before the uncertain guardsman closed the cell and locked it again. The guardsman hesitated for a moment and then hastened away, hastened to leave him alone with the man that governed them all. Arthur backed up against the wall. Despite his lack of sobriety, King Bayard was upon him in seconds. His hand curled tight around his throat – not squeezing, but threatening, the faintest pressure ensuring Arthur knew just who was in control of their encounter – as usual. The apple in his throat bobbed as Arthur swallowed and stared at the King, stared at the man that had traumatised the nephew he’d claimed to love too much to execute.

An almost gentle finger stroked through the wetness on his cheek.

“Been weeping, Pendragon? What a shame that I missed it. I love seeing you splinter and shatter in front of me. You know, I still dream of your bones crunching beneath the weight of these boots. What an exquisite sound.” The strong scent of wine ghosted across his face. His stomach churned. King Bayard loomed yet closer, his bearded face coming within an inch of Arthur. His grip tightened a fraction. His voice dropped to a drunken whisper. “Tell me you bewitched him. Tell me...tell me you hired someone to do it.”

“I’d never do that.”

“Liar,” snarled the King, his grip tightening even further, minimising the amount of air reaching his chest with each breath Arthur took. A cold sweat broke out on his skin. His nightmares clawed to the surface and threatened to make him break before the King, but Arthur wouldn’t let them. He wouldn’t let them. His mouth twisted in a snarl as his chin lifted in defiance. The King wrenched him forward and then slammed him back again – his head knocked against the stone and the cell spun dangerously, but Arthur clung to consciousness. His fingers dug into the stone at his back. Spittle hit his face as King Bayard began shouting, his almost hysterical voice loud enough to wake the dead entombed beneath Camelot. “You’re a damned liar! Merlin must be ensorcelled! How else could such a man fall in love with a monster like you?!”

Arthur hawked and spat in his face.

The King drew back and slapped him hard enough to send him sprawling, the corner of his mouth splitting. His mouth flooded with the taste of copper. King Bayard was on him an instant later, Arthur defending himself with all the scraps of courage and determination that he could muster, knowing it would never make a difference. It would never make a difference: he was a dead man still walking, still breathing, his condemned heart still beating. The pair of them were grunting and snarling even as Arthur and King Bayard did their best to beat each other, blood spattering, knuckles splitting. Arthur had come out on top at last when magic seized him around the middle and hauled him away, pinning him against the wall as Councillor Ares stormed into the cell amid a blaze of power. The dagger he’d managed to draw from the King’s belt clattered to the floor.

“That is enough!” Councillor Ares hauled King Bayard to his feet and left him swaying, throwing an unimpressed glare over his shoulder at Arthur, who raised an obstinate chin despite the painful swelling on his face. “Your Majesty, you’re drunk and in no fit state to be beating prisoners. Go to bed.”

“You can’t tell me what to do.”

Councillor Ares snorted at his petulant tone and then summoned the dagger to his hand. He slid it into its waiting sheath and proceeded to heal the King, narrowing his eyes when King Bayard squirmed in place like a scolded child. It was an odd thing to see after the man had slammed into Arthur; the uncertain guardsman from earlier seemed to think so as well as he hesitated outside the cell and waited for the King to vacate the dungeon.

King Bayard did so with a stagger, slurring, “I’m going because I want to. Not because you told me. Understood?”

“Naturally,” Councillor Ares agreed immediately, bowing his head in a show of respect. The seconds trickled past as the uneven steps receded. His absence left the experienced mage alone with Arthur, who crumpled to the floor as soon as the magic released him. Councillor Ares released a sigh and dropped to his knees with the ease of a younger man. He looked at Arthur, his expression sorrowful and understanding, softened with concern that he’d never have shown in front of King Bayard. He reached out a gentle hand and Arthur jerked away, shuffled away, his muscles aching, and the scope of his vision diminishing as his face continued to swell. Arthur stared off to the side: he had nothing to say to a man that worked for King Bayard. “I’ve been asked to check up on you. Needless to say, our mutual friend won’t be pleased to hear what happened to you in his absence.”

Arthur looked at him at last.

“Is he well?”

“Not as such.” Councillor Ares’ eyes dimmed with familiar devastation. He cast a subtle glance over his shoulder, mindful of the witnesses sitting in the other cell. He looked again at Arthur. His voice quietened. “But I’ve been asked to tell you that he loves you. That he appreciates the conversations as yet unspoken between you.”

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut.

His heart clenched and then released in understanding, in relief for the forgiveness that he’d been granted. No one had ever deserved forgiveness less than him. He turned his face away, the cut near his eye stinging something fierce as a tear slipped free. Arthur ran a shaking hand over the spot where his crystal should have been. He could remember the moment King Bayard had ripped it free with clarity, his stare dark and dangerous as his hand curled around the crystal and yanked it away, the leather cord biting into the back of his neck in the process. He’d watched King Bayard grip it in his fist before casting that dreaded sentence with a gleam of triumph in his eyes.

Arthur wanted so much to feel that familiar embrace of magic that he’d never again get to experience from the source – for more reasons than one.

“Tell him something for me.” Arthur opened his eyes and looked at the mage kneeling in front of him. His heart tried to punch a hole through his chest. He swept his tongue across his cracked and bleeding lip and swallowed the taste of copper without even flinching when the corner of his mouth burned at the thoughtless touch of his tongue. “Tell him that I’m his. Tell him that I’ve been his from the beginning, though I never knew it at the time. Tell him that I’ll be his in the next life – that I’ll petition the High Queen to send me back as soon as possible. Tell him that I’ll do something. That he’ll see me again before he...before he...”

His voice cracked.

“You can be assured that I’ll tell him before the night is through.” Councillor Ares reached out as though to touch his knee and then seemed to think better of it. He rose to his feet instead. He towered over Arthur, his face now cast in shadow, but for a thin sliver that showed his appreciation for what he’d said. A sorrowful smile twisted what Arthur could see of his mouth. “I would have said the same to Robert.”

He and Arthur shared a strange moment of kinship.

“Let me heal you before I leave.”

“No.” Arthur looked away, his jaw clenching. Just doing that much hurt something fierce. He felt as though his skin had been rubbed raw and stretched until it started screaming, protesting the abuse. But he’d thrown his entire being into that grapple with King Bayard. He’d even defeated him. Despite his insobriety, King Bayard hadn’t been a push over in the least. Defeating him had still been more than a scrap of a challenge. Arthur would go down with that knowledge burning deep in his gut and he’d wear the wounds to match. “Thank you for the offer, but no.”

“It wasn’t an offer.”

His head turned back at the utterance of those words.

Councillor Ares’ expression shuttered in his peripheral vision and his voice remained soft. Arthur wondered whether his adoptive siblings could hear the experienced mage speaking, whether his words were even loud enough to cross the distance separating their cells from each other. Arthur noticed the hand gripping the robes at his side. Arthur slid his attention back up to Councillor Ares’ face.

“I must insist.” The shuttered expression remained in place and the sight of it unnerved Arthur, who felt a sharp twist in his gut. “I won’t leave before I do.”

“Fine.” His jaw clenched again. Arthur swallowed the pained cursing that threatened to escape him. He pointed at his face first and then gestured to the back of his head. “You can ease the swelling and heal whatever damage the King inflicted at the back of my head – but leave the rest.”

Councillor Ares’ expression eased somewhat. His hand relaxed. Arthur continued to watch him as the man raised his arm and made a claw of his hand. He directed it at him. His eyes flared with magic as Councillor Ares invoked a healing spell. Another spell unlocked the cell and Councillor Ares swept away, his robes swirling around him with the force of his momentum.

He was gone before Arthur had even finished healing, the cell locking all over again and trapping him within. He eased his head back against the stone wall and breathed a sigh of relief when no pain flared upon contact: it seemed his head had been healed. Just as he’d requested. Arthur looked across the dungeon corridor, and offered an exhausted smile to his adoptive siblings – both of whom looked at him as though he’d done something wondrous and frightening all at once. Gwen looked torn between wanting to cuff his head and wanting to hug him with all her strength. Arthur understood the latter. He’d have given the world to receive an embrace from someone that loved him right now – preferably, one from Merlin. Arthur, however, knew his lover wouldn’t be coming to see him before morning arrived: his steps would be under intense surveillance until nothing remained of Arthur but ash and charred fragments of bone.

Arthur forced himself to rise and retrieve his blanket before settling in his usual corner and wrapping the blanket around him once more. He tipped his head back against the wall and thought about Merlin. He thought about the warm embraces and the soothing nature of his hands. He thought about the deep and lingering kisses that made him forget what it was like to be tense with nerves all the time.

He clung to that sense of calm.

That calm remained with him through the night.

It remained wrapped around him as the guards arrived in the morning, unlocking the cell quietly, not entering but waiting in the corridor. Arthur rose to his feet. He abandoned the blanket and exited the cell without argument. His chin remained high as he was escorted through corridor after corridor, his hands now bound behind his back with a simple length of rope.

Manacles would just be damaged in the scorching heat of the flames.

The guards never touched him – not like the Knights had the previous day; men that Arthur had helped to heal after witnessing and doing his best to participate in more than his fair share of violent skirmishes with bandits and insurgent forces. Arthur could never have described the gratitude he felt for being allowed to walk to his end – to face the fatal consequences of his actions on his own terms.

He would rather walk to his death than be dragged.

Gwen was being escorted behind him and treated to the same courtesy, but Elyan was carried between two guardsmen that he’d fought beside in the past. His elder brother couldn’t walk on his own after the beating he’d been given.

Arthur swallowed at the thought. He couldn’t bear the thought that Elyan had been beaten and bloodied because of him. His elder brother, however, couldn’t forgive himself for breaking, for snapping at last under the weight of the terrible abuse he’d been exposed to. Arthur and Gwen couldn’t blame him for breaking. Elyan wasn’t an impending monarch or a member of the Catha – he hadn’t been trained to survive such an ordeal without breaking, and no one had the right to expect it from him. Had Arthur become a ruler, or even just a consort with limited ruling power, he’d never have expected such a thing from his people. The people to blame for what happened were the Knights that had beaten Elyan to a pulp and the King that had ordered them to.

Arthur was on that short list as well.

It was just one more sin to be burned out of him.

The courtyard was filled with people when he emerged from the castle between his armed escorts. His vision threatened to blur when he saw the countless exhausted faces that had stood vigil throughout the night – each of them were clad in black for mourning. He hadn’t thought he’d be mourned outside of his miniscule circle of loved ones. Arthur chewed his bottom lip and raised his chin higher, walking past people he’d worked for, past people he’d helped during his service to the Crown Prince of Camelot and Mercia. He wasn’t ashamed of the choices he’d made when leaving the citadel. Nor was he ashamed of having wanted to help people. He’d even been forgiven. He wouldn’t break down in front of the King, who stood at a safe distance from him and looked out over the people below from the balcony. Merlin was an ashen statue trapped beside his uncle. His eyes contained the only glimmer of life as he stared down at the platform waiting for Arthur and those condemned with him.

The path to his death seemed endless as Arthur stared up at his lover, waking on and on beside his armed escorts. Merlin looked broken. He looked as though he’d been shattered on the floor and someone tried to put him back together, but there were pieces still missing, and Merlin would never be complete again. Arthur mouthed his name as his heart tore down the middle all over again. Almost deadened eyes slid over to him immediately; it was as though his attention had been summoned the moment Arthur shaped his name in silence.

Ashen features fractured.

Silent tears spilled.

His heart bleeding, Arthur stared at the man he loved even as he mounted the steps leading up to the platform at the heart of the courtyard.

Three stakes waited.

The guardsmen were almost gentle as Arthur was bound to the one set aside for him. Dry wood snapped beneath his boots. Merlin never looked away, not once looking elsewhere as the others were bound to their own stakes. He started mouthing words that Arthur couldn’t quite discern. But he could guess. He could guess what his lover meant to say, what he meant to tell him. Merlin seemed to be expounding, but the essence had been mumbled the night before. Had been written in each kiss and caress he’d been given. Had been felt each time Merlin wrapped around him and just held him like he mattered – like there was more to him than just his name and the laws that trapped him.

Laws he’d escape now, finally, in the worst manner imaginable.

Arthur stared at Merlin until the executioner and his accomplice mounted the platform overlooking the crowd of townspeople and guardsmen dispersed across the courtyard. He flicked his attention around the gathered crowd and took note of several things in rapid succession: Pellinore stood with Deorwynn and his adoptive father; Lancelot and Kay stood closest to Arthur; Sir Lamorak stood closest to the gates with Ninianne and Lady Hunith in tow, dressed in his mail and armed with his sword. His gut twisted in confusion – Lady Hunith wasn’t wearing a gown and neither was her daughter, the pair having donned trousers and tunics instead. His heart stumbled and fell over itself. Fear licked up his spine. Arthur swept the courtyard again and his head started calculating, taking note of ten faces he’d never seen in Camelot in before.

One man stood near the platform. His bearded face was cloaked in shadow, the hem of his hood hanging low; Arthur almost mistook him for a Druid from a local settlement...but the faint quirk of his mouth made him think otherwise. His expression seemed almost roguish. Arthur stared down at him and swallowed as the faint quirk deepened into a full smirk beneath the shadow of his hood – the man even winked at him in an almost teasing manner. His heart pounding, Arthur turned his attention back upon his ashen lover still trapped on the balcony, but there was no hint of a secret on his features. Merlin knew nothing about these unknown men and women dispersed throughout the crowd gathered in the courtyard or even whatever Lady Hunith and her husband planned to do.

His head still calculating, Arthur lowered his gaze and watched the executioner douse him and the wood beneath him with oil from a ewer etched in runes from the Old Religion.

It smelled like lavender.

At least he’d smell nice for a while.

His head thumped back against the stake holding him captive.

Arthur made no effort to escape the rough rope binding him in place: he wasn’t interested in feeling the rope bite into his sensitive skin. He wasn’t interested in feeling his skin rub itself raw, blistering, bleeding, and all for the sake of escaping when it would accomplish nothing. It would accomplish nothing but steel plunging deep in his gut as the Knights impaled him in front of his lover.

He watched the executioner move across the platform steadily, moving from one condemned citizen to another, now splashing oil across Gwen’s tunic and trousers. His mouth twisted in a snarl as his hand itched to wrap around Carnwennan and plunge steel into his broad belly, warm blood spilling over his own skin to saturate him in guilt and dark satisfaction in equal measure.

Arthur wasn’t alone in his murderous thoughts. He could see Lancelot twitching at the edge of his vision. A small smile chased the snarl away; Lancelot was a good man and an even better warrior, and he was more than half in love with Gwen. He was often heard rhapsodising about her in the tavern – not that Arthur often had occasion to witness such a thing. But he’d overheard a few guardsmen laughing about it more than once: a besotted fool was considered a great source of amusement among the ranks. Part of Arthur wondered what the lot of them would have thought about the relationship between him and his lover, how besotted he’d have been considered had their love been open and acknowledged as others could be. How besotted he’d have been considered had someone from the ranks witnessed his startled happiness when Merlin kissed his cheek in Ealdor in open view, uncaring of who witnessed their affection for each other, luxuriating in the chance to be as other couples could.

He looked up at the balcony, where Merlin gripped the balustrade with both of his hands. His lover stared right back at him. Merlin almost looked prepared to dive from the balcony, to drop down into the crowd and count on his people to get him to Arthur, but he knew it was a fanciful thought. A dive from that height would hurt both Merlin and whoever tried to arrest his descent. Arthur watched his narrow chest start heaving as the executioner finished dousing Elyan and stepped away, handing the ewer of oil to his accomplice and accepting the burning torch before looking up at the King, awaiting the command.

King Bayard nodded at the executioner, a smirk dancing across his mouth as triumph blazed in his expression. He’d been waiting for this. It must have tasted like the sweetest nectar when he learned Arthur had armed himself and fled the citadel in the middle of the night. It must have been infuriating when he couldn’t find reason to execute Tom alongside his children – to rid himself of the man who’d stepped forward to raise the accursed son of Uther Pendragon and let him fester into adulthood.

“Your Majesty, will you not allow the condemned a last chance to speak?” Merlin spoke clearly; his voice cut through the courtyard and made the executioner hesitate in setting the oil and wood aflame. Arthur swallowed as the flames paused in the middle of their descent and hovered too close for comfort: a single spark would be enough to set him ablaze. He swept the crowd once more as calculations that refused to reach a conclusive answer circled his head and then looked up at his lover, who turned and arched an eyebrow at King Bayard. Mercifully, his tears had managed to subside and now a spark of colour stained those once ashen cheeks. “You taught me that the last words of a person condemned to death were considered a sacred right never to be denied. Would you go back on your own word?”

King Bayard tensed and looked askance at Merlin. His expression grew a fraction stony, as though he’d almost expected Merlin to speak up and yet had continued to hope otherwise. Arthur watched them both closely, looking for a sign that the King would lash out at Merlin while Arthur was bound in place and unable to help him. Just the thought of watching Merlin receive another vicious slap threatened to send Arthur into another burst of uncontrollable rage.

King Bayard gripped the balustrade. He looked back down at Arthur, his triumph dimming somewhat and his mouth thinning, but announced to the gathering, “Very well. The three of you may have your last words. I’d suggest you keep them short – these people have lives to return to.” His voice sharpened as the executioner withdrew the flaming torch before a single spark could catch. “His Highness and I also have duties to attend to.”

Elyan spoke earnestly, his words reaching Tom across the courtyard – expressing his gratitude for having such a kind and understanding father; apologising for not having been a better son and brother – a remark that almost had Arthur shouting in an outpouring of pain and anger, but he managed to control himself in order to keep each final word owed to him when the end came.

Gwen was just as earnest. She spoke of having wanted to take over the smithy, to teach whatever children she might have had the same craft that Tom once taught her. She then looked at Arthur, saying, “But I don’t regret coming to help you. I don’t regret facing this with you. You’ll never share our blood...but we chose you. We chose to make you a member of our family, and the bonds we choose are so much stronger than those we’re born with. We’re with you – no matter what.”

Arthur swallowed thickly, turning his face away, his vision blurring. A long moment past before he managed to get his emotions under lock and key, that sense of calm from earlier flooding through him in a rush as Arthur tipped his head back and gazed up at the man he’d love far beyond his last breath. He took a deep breath and looked out over the crowd then.

“Camelot has been home to me since I was born.” The words escaped calm and clear, unwavering despite the future waiting for him as soon as he finished speaking. Arthur looked at the people that Camelot would be nothing without. “I’ve wanted nothing but the best for her: safety and security; prosperity; a glorious future under a monarch that loves their people with their whole being. I wanted what all of you wanted. I’ve never been that different to the children you’ve raised and loved. I grew up watching the guardsmen and archers patrol the battlements just like them. I watched Knights ride out to face dangerous creatures and insurgent forces that threatened our home and I wanted so much to go with them. I wanted to help in some way, and yet I never could. I wasn’t allowed. That changed when I met Merlin.”

The gathered crowd gasped at his open use of his name.

Arthur swallowed thickly, but he knew that word that Merlin had kissed him in front of the King would have spread through the lower town like wildfire. He continued speaking and kept the momentum going; he knew that falling silent for even a moment would give King Bayard reason to order his immediate execution.

He had to get his thoughts out while he could.

“Merlin saw me with a broken arm and recognised something in me that no one else had seen before – something that no one had wanted to see. He hired me on the spot. It never seemed to matter that I was Arthur Pendragon – that the unnatural conception that made me sparked so much death and destruction. That I was the reason he grew up without a father – just as countless others have grown up without their loved ones. It never seemed to matter that his uncle hated the sight of me. Merlin forgave and welcomed me anyway; he proved himself so much greater and stronger and braver than his uncle could ever be. He was the first friend I ever had and I’m so grateful to have known him. I’m so grateful that he chose to love me when it would have been safer and wiser to condemn me before ever taking the time to befriend me.” Arthur drew in a deep breath and raised his chin before shouting, “Long live the Prince!”

The crowd shouted the phrase in return.

The King shouted at the executioner, who stepped forward immediately, hastening to follow the order given to him. The man shrieked an instant later, an arrow ripping straight through his forearm. The torch toppled from his grasp and struck the platform a foot or two from wood drenched in oil.

Pandemonium erupted.    


	33. Chapter Thirty-Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to everyone still reading/commenting/leaving Kudos. I appreciate all of it!
> 
> Here is another chapter for you!
> 
> Please don't kill me...but feel free to let me know what you think...

His heart jumped into his throat and tried to punch a hole out through it as the fallen torch sparked dangerously, glowing embers bouncing far closer to wood and oil than he’d have liked. Just an inch more and he’d go up in towering flames. A cold sweat broke out upon his skin as terror rippled through him. It continued to grow until the hooded man burst into view, cursing as he rushed to crush each ember, kicking the burning torch over the edge of the platform. Steel sang as Kay appeared behind him to defend against one of five Knights that stormed the platform. His rescuer unsheathed a fine sword from his belt and slashed through the rope binding Arthur in place. Arthur almost buckled with relief and managed to keep upright through sheer determination as the man that freed him hauled him away, his hand tight and protective around his upper arm for no reason that Arthur could even determine. He struggled against the man and made to lunge for his adoptive sister, but Lancelot reached Gwen first and freed her with a sweep of his own blade before shoving a second sword into her waiting hand – the pair made a dash for Elyan.

Arthur whipped his gaze up as his rescuer continued to haul him away; he watched a familiar figure sprint across the battlements with a longbow in hand. Her skin turned to something darker than shadow as the autumn sun glowed behind her. Robyn threw herself to the stone floor to avoid a bolt fired from a crossbow, used her momentum to propel herself into a roll and came up running, slamming her palm into the nose of the nearest archer, a bellow of triumph escaping her as the man toppled over the parapet. He hit the cobblestones in seconds. Robyn kept sprinting, taking out crossbowmen and archers along the way, sending each one that opposed her toppling to their doom.

His rescuer hauled him to the edge of the platform and propelled him forward before Arthur could utter a single word. His knees jarred when Arthur landed on the cobblestones below the platform. He wanted to ask...he wanted to make sure the man worked for the Queen of Cornwall...but there was no time as his rescuer whirled around to clash with a Knight. His heart thumping, Arthur faced the churning miasma of people and struggled against his anxiety, unwilling to fall to pieces now that freedom was in his grasp.

The courtyard was frenzied with violence: guardsmen were turning against each other; the townspeople and mages were making an almost united front against the Knights most loyal to King Bayard.

A cold wave of fear washed through him.

His gaze whipped up to the balcony, where King Bayard was now armed with a crossbow, taking aim at him. Merlin gave a shout of rage and tackled his uncle an instant before the bolt fired. The shot went wide and whirred overhead to hit the Knight his rescuer faced atop the platform: the man went down like a sack of grains. It gave his rescuer the chance to jump down and join him. He shoved the fallen blade into his hand immediately, a grim expression chasing the roguish air away, revealing the hardened warrior concealed beneath the surface.

“I trust you know how to use it.”

“I’ll manage.”

Arthur looked around for his family, his mouth a desert now, and thought he saw familiar raven curls at the other side of the churning crowd. His heart lurched. He made to throw himself into the melee. His rescuer stopped him with a wrench of his arm.

“Your Highness –” His rescuer changed tactics when the unexpected address almost made Arthur stumble as he urged him in another direction altogether. “ _Arthur_ , I swear I have comrades working to get your loved ones to safety; Robyn gave us a list detailing their descriptions when we first started planning your escape. But you and I can’t afford to waste time in Camelot. I’ve been tasked with getting you out of here. Come _on_.”

“Why should I trust you? I don’t even know your name!”

“I’m Gwaine.”

The man in question shoved him into the crowd churning ahead of them. Arthur tightened his hand around the unfamiliar hilt in his grasp; the blade was a fraction too large for comfort. It was heavy and unwieldy, unsuited to his frame. His long years helping out in the forge had taught him at least that much. But he’d make it work. Just the thought of escaping Camelot flooded his chest with determination. Growling, Arthur met the first guard to oppose their escape with a surge of energy, autumn sunshine reflecting from his blade as it arced through the air to clash with steel as Gwaine faced his own foe beside him. Gwaine cut down his own opponent faster than Arthur, but failed to gloat over his superior skill as another man might have in his stead. His rescuer gave Arthur an encouraging slap on the shoulder, earning a startled smile in response before the pair plunged further into the crowd separating them from the gates.

Gwaine faced the Knights whenever one or a group of them got in their way, shoving Arthur behind him with a quick and protective hand. Arthur wasn’t fool enough to protest the action: facing a group of aggressive bandits or guardsmen was one thing, but opposing a Knight was another matter entirely; Arthur knew he wasn’t skilled enough to hold his own against a Knight. Gwaine seemed more than capable as a warrior, his blade singing through the air, stained crimson with blood. He might even have been equal in skill to Sir Tor – not that Arthur considered himself an expert on swordsmanship in the least. Nor could he waste time watching Gwaine fight beside him. Arthur kept an eye out instead: he clashed with guardsmen that sought to take advantage of that preoccupation with such enemies and he started calculating, his gaze whipping around the melee raging around him.

Arthur sought out his lover, trapped still on the balcony, where Merlin grappled with his uncle for control of the crossbow. His gut twisted with sinking realisation: no one stood with Merlin. No one was waiting to get him to safety – not even Sir Tor, who was nowhere to be seen. Arthur knew Sir Tor would never have abandoned his friend and former lover when he was grieving; King Bayard must have confined him to his chambers after sentencing Arthur and his adoptive siblings to death. His gut twisted even harder. Knowing how dangerous it would be and not caring, Arthur threw himself into the melee and fought even harder, snarling, pushing closer and closer to the large doors separating him from his remaining loved ones: his friend and his lover, and his energetic dog confined to the rooms he’d once shared with Merlin.

Arthur vanished into the crowd almost before Gwaine noticed he’d taken a step away, the churning crowd closing around him and concealing him in part. Gwaine cursed somewhere behind him. His rescuer charged after Arthur, cutting through the crowd with an ease that surprised him. Arthur wrenched free of the hand that snared him and took advantage of the distraction that arose a moment later, another bunch of Knights closing in upon Gwaine. He couldn’t afford to delay; Arthur needed to take advantage of the edge the melee raging in the courtyard would give him. It would allow him to slip into the castle unnoticed while the guardsmen were busy, the forces opposing them a distraction. He needed to reach Sir Tor. Working together, the pair of them could get Merlin somewhere safe.

He’d memorised the escape tunnels for such purposes.

He knew the quickest routes.

Arthur had their escape plan down to an art.

That was when Fate decided to punch him in the face.

Jeffrey, the torch gripped in his hand flaming, lunged into his path. Arthur wrenched himself away, almost toppling in his haste to escape the flames that consumed the air in front of him as his childhood tormentor lashed out. His familiar face twisted with a vicious snarl. Someone jostled against Arthur from behind and his weakened grip on his blade slackened further. His sword clattered to the cobblestones beneath him. Jeffrey pressed his advantage at once. Arthur curled his abdomen inward with a harsh breath to avoid the perilous blow even as he danced away, the flames coming within a scant inch of fabric drenched in oil. His heart tried to punch a hole out through his chest. He dodged another blow and another, his throat constricting, his nerves making a mess of him as his childhood tormentor came after him again and again. It was worse now, Jeffrey doing his best to murder him instead of just giving him a beating.

Arthur realised he’d given too much ground when the broad span of his shoulders collided with two adjacent walls. Terror pulsed through him. He looked around for a weapon and found nothing, nothing with which to defend himself. His heart jumped into his throat as Jeffrey donned a triumphant smirk. The world around him seemed to slow down as the flames lunged forward and Arthur knew it was the end of him – and then a bucket came swinging, splintering and shattering against the head of his childhood tormentor. Jeffrey staggered before dropping like a stone. Arthur yelped as he tried to squash himself against the wall even further, his legs spreading to avoid flames as the burning torch almost failed to miss his groin as it swept downwards.

“I should’ve done that a long time ago.” Deorwynn stood flushed and panting in front of Arthur, her knuckles white around the handle from the bucket. She reached for his hand with her free one and pulled him away, Arthur taking a careful step over the torch still burning, flames vibrant against the stone. “We need to get you out of here before someone succeeds in killing you!”

“I can’t go without Merlin!”

“You have to!” Her hand tightened around his. Her expression was fierce when she looked over her shoulder, wisps of hair loose from her chignon. “Do you think he’d want you captured again – or worse – when you have a chance to escape? You need to take advantage of this moment while you can! Don’t waste it on the impossible!”

“It isn’t impossible –”

“I beg to differ,” Gwaine said as he appeared beside Arthur, his hand finding his upper arm all over again. Together, the two of them steered him toward the exit and Arthur gaped as a mountain of a man heaved a cask of ale from beyond the gates into his large and impressive arms. His powerful muscles rippled with strength as the man threw it in one swift movement. Gwaine forced his head down at once and the cask soared overhead to crash into five Knights in hot pursuit of them. Three more Knights slipped and fell in the ale that splashed across the cobblestones. Injured mages were teleporting out of the citadel with subjects of the crown in tow, outnumbered and exhausted from the skirmish still churning around them. “I have to agree with your friend here. None of us are going to get close enough to the Prince. Helping him escape is a lost cause. I’m sorry.”

“You swore!”

“I’m sorry,” Gwaine repeated insistently, the word sounding genuine on his tongue and Arthur knew then his endeavours were futile. Merlin was never going to leave Camelot with him. Heart crumpling, Arthur almost choked on the sob that rose in his throat as he looked over his shoulder; Merlin was now pinned against the balustrade and the King was shouting, his face flushed with anger, but Merlin looked smug as he said something that earned an immediate slap. Another sob escaped Arthur, this one tinged with fury, his feet ceasing to move for an instant before Gwaine and Deorwynn forced him to keep going. He was out through the gates before a single heartbroken plea could escape him.

Arthur whipped his gaze around as his vision blurred.

Steel slashed in their wake as the mountain of a man and two females warriors defended the gate long enough to give Arthur a head start – and then the three of them disappeared in a storm of wind that buffeted Arthur, Deorwynn and his rescuer in the process. His heart tried to punch a hole through his chest. His abused muscles screamed in protest as he ran headlong through the lower town at a ferocious speed that had his lungs burning, threatening to explode within the barrel of his chest. Tears threatened to cascade down his face. Arthur, however, couldn’t afford to weep. He couldn’t afford to break down in the middle of their escape and render the actions Merlin had taken to help him null and void.

Swallowing his tears was like swallowing a sword: the sharpened edges lacerated his throat on the way, plunging deep into the pit of his belly, puncturing his innards. Arthur did his best to ignore the agony, knowing there would be time enough to wallow later, but he needed to escape Camelot first. Sweat glistened on his skin. His face flamed with exertion as Gwaine and Deorwynn drove him on and on without relenting, never pausing long enough to catch their breath.

Arthur thought he’d never stop running, that he’d die running, that his heart would explode in his chest as his muscles turned to fire. The warriors that had teleported out from behind them emerged from the tree line now fast approaching, bolts and arrows whirring through the air the moment Arthur and his companions crashed into the Darkling Wood.

Bodies toppled in their wake.

Enemies never seemed to stop coming, pouring out from the lower town both on foot and horseback. Hooves thundered across the ground in a violent storm. Branches snapped underfoot. Thorns tore at flesh and ripped at clothes. His face stung something fierce as sweat seeped into the cuts and scrapes he’d earned for himself. His bruised hips throbbed as Arthur kept running, panting, his breath quick and sharp and never enough to ease the burning in his veins. His lower back blazed with pain.

He wasn’t...

He wasn’t going to make it.

Arthur could feel his muscles quivering, weakening, on the verge of giving up and giving out. He was about to express as much when a trio of Druids burst into their path with almost explosive force and forced them to a stop. The leader – an elder man with a hawkish nose and curls the colour of steel – latched on to Arthur, his hands reverent and fierce and almost loving, his eyes warm and vibrant with emotion strong enough to make him take an immediate step back. Arthur swallowed as the man held on tighter, his rushed words rising and falling, his eyes glowing with magic. A mix of surprise and horror flooded through him as the man started changing, his frame growing taller and broader, his hair straightening and shortening, turning flaxen. His hawkish nose turned aquiline. His jaw grew broader and stronger, the slope a replica of his own. It wasn’t as much of a surprise to see his clothes changing themselves – changing fabric and colour, growing wet where sweat and oil soaked the clothes Arthur wore himself. The mirror of his own face grew flush with fervour, eyes widening, the Druid whispering, “For the love of Albion!”

His fellow Druids had become mirror images of Gwaine and Deorwynn.

The man wearing his face urged Arthur away, encouraging them to conceal themselves. Still flushed and panting, Gwaine urged him across some distance before driving him behind a thick tree concealed behind a thicket and flattening him against the trunk. His hand covered his mouth in an instant. Arthur stared at the warrior, his eyes widening as a wave of magic swept through the area – he knew at once that evidence of both the ruse and their concealment had been erased. Thundering hooves grew louder. He heard the Druids start running, their rapid steps crushing fallen leaves and snapping branches. Arthur looked askance at the friend he’d made during his years of service: Deorwynn was shaking, pressed flat against a tree of her own and covering her mouth with her own hand. Her eyes were squeezed shut with fear.

None of them moved until Gwaine was certain the area was clear, his shoulders tense as he led Arthur and Deorwynn away, the pair of them shaking and supporting each other, their frames so much more than exhausted. Arthur was convinced he might yet die just from exhaustion as Gwaine led them deeper into the Darkling Wood.

The darkest despair loomed at the back of his mind and Arthur shoved it deeper, and deeper, and deeper into the confines of his mind. He couldn’t let it overwhelm him now, not while he and Deorwynn remained so close to danger, her arm wrapped around his middle and his across the span of her shoulders. He never once looked over his shoulder. He never once looked back to remember all that he’d lost in the ripple of consequences that followed his own thoughtless actions. Arthur forced himself not to think about his lover, his friend and former master, his Merlin. He forced himself not to think about Merlin bruised and bleeding, victimised at the cruel hands of his uncle in his stead. Just letting himself think about Merlin trapped in that vulnerable position would be more than enough to shatter Arthur entirely, and their fractured future together would crumble to dust at last.

Now, with Camelot spreading out over his shoulder and Cornwall stretching out ahead of Arthur, some small scrap of hope remained to burn within his chest. That scrap was dim and tiny, but it was enough to keep him moving when Arthur wanted to do nothing more than weep – weep for what the people of Camelot had done to help him escape and for having abandoned the man he’d professed to love: abandoned him for the sake of himself.

Guilt plunged into his gut like cold steel.

Arthur shoved it away, confined it with lock and key, and hardened himself against all the emotions twisting and writhing inside him. He refused to let himself feel anything other than exhaustion and the tired presence of Deorwynn at his side.

Gwaine marched on ahead. He was panting no longer, his flesh having cooled as he led Arthur and Deorwynn deeper into the Darkling Wood. Arthur was on the verge of collapsing from exhaustion when the trees opened out into a clearing, revealing a collection of winged beasts he’d seen in illustrations during his studies of magic and a bedraggled gathering of his loved ones. He spared little thought for the beasts and almost wept when Ninianne ploughed into him and wrapped her arms around his middle. His quivering muscles almost giving way, Arthur crushed the young witch closer, his trembling arm warm and tight around her as she sobbed openly; her tears soaked through his tunic.

Lady Hunith was less than a step behind her daughter and then Arthur did start weeping, his heart breaking, and tears of guilt spilling into her brown hair. Broken sounds of his grief muffled themselves against her shoulder as his knees buckled. Ninianne and her mother went down with him.

Eventually, Lady Hunith forced him to withdraw and look at her, his vision still blurring even as she framed his face with both hands and whispered fiercely, “You did nothing wrong, Arthur, _nothing_. Merlin wanted you safe. He wanted you free. Nothing could be done to help him and you know it deep down. You know it as well as I. Don’t you dare succumb to guilt now, not when freedom is so close at hand. Don’t you dare let his wishes be in vain – do you understand me? You have to get back up.”

“I can’t –”

“You can.” Lady Hunith grew twice as fierce. “Merlin believes in you and so do I. So do the people that fought to give you a chance. _Get up_.”

His chest heaving, his muscles protesting, Arthur heaved himself to one bended knee as his nearest loved ones drew away, and forced himself to his feet with another hard push. He staggered with exhaustion. His heart almost exploded within his chest at the immense effort remaining on his feet took. No one moved to help him as Arthur forced himself to close the distance between himself and the largest winged beast watching him curiously, handsome golden eyes sharp and focused. The hippogriff cocked its head as Arthur approached determinedly, large wings twitching in interest. The handsome bridle – black leather looping around the fine beak and pressing close to the white-feathered face – offered control to the rider while still allowing the beast to use its beak as it would in the wild. Arthur treated the creature as he would a horse: he allowed it to grow familiar with his scent before running a shaking and soothing hand over handsome feathers. He was saddled a moment later, his thighs spreading, protesting the stretch of his abused muscles even as he pressed close to the mountain of a man from earlier sitting in front of him.

It was the moment the others had been waiting for. It took a minute or two to get his loved ones saddled behind or in front of more experienced riders – depending upon age and strength of their grip.

Soon Arthur was soaring, his face buried against a massive shoulder and his arms wound tight around the more experienced rider, their mount having propelled itself into the air with a hard gallop and a powerful sweep of its immense wings: an impressive beast for an impressive man. He almost couldn’t breathe for the fear of falling, his hands fisting chainmail as their hippogriff carried them higher and higher, the damp kiss of clouds making him shiver. The mountain of a man in front of him patted his hand lightly, turned his head and said kindly, “Never fear, Your Highness. Orpheus would never let us fall!”

Arthur let out an incoherent noise and pressed closer, unable to raise his head and watch the sweep of the land stretching out below, the castle in his wake a reminder of what he’d done. What he was still doing. His tears started to fall over again. He struggled to calm himself down as the wind whipped through his hair. His chest tightened with anxiety, his throat constricting, but Arthur failed to calm down until the mountain of a man introduced himself as Percival and started talking, his voice calm and soothing. Percival spoke about the preparations made for their journey, of the warriors chosen with the greatest care and the castle schematics the Queen of Cornwall had drawn from memory, a recollection dusted off and restored the moment the enchantment broke. He spoke about receiving word about the execution – of having to bring their plan forward several months in advance and thus reducing their confidence of their victory, of a mission accomplished. Arthur listened to each word spoken closely, hoping to hear some hint of what his aunt was like as a person.

Whether she would like him or whether she came for him because of duty, because of the connection she’d once shared with his mother. Arthur knew the bond of blood was strong, but blood had never stopped Agravaine from conspiring with Mercia against Camelot. It hadn’t stopped him from orchestrating the murder of his father or the subsequent usurpation of his right to the throne. But he learned nothing new, aside from the revelation that Merewald had as much skill with forging mental maps as Arthur did.

A few hours passed this way, the hippogriffs taking it easy, allowing their majestic frames to glide where possible to conserve energy, the span of their wings glorious when Arthur at last managed to make himself lift his head from that massive shoulder. The autumn sun glowed across the blue ceiling, painting the drifting clouds with colour; splashes of warm pinks and oranges that made his heart clench with remembered pain. Merlin would have loved this: the open air, the freedom and endless beauty, the Great Sea of Meredor shimmering far below. The coast of Gawant could be seen when Arthur glanced over his shoulder, and even the port of Gedref was visible where Camelot and Nemeth embraced each other, old friends and strong allies.

Arthur turned his face away, focusing on what spread out ahead of him as his heart clenched again.

The Great Sea of Meredor seemed to stretch for eternity, the landmass embracing her, coaxing her closer and yet never wrapping far enough around to encompass her from beginning to end. Her waters spread out to the south-west as far as the naked eye could see. Merchant ships could be seen below, skimming the water, propelled forward with the wind. To the south lay, however, yet more land: Arthur knew the coast in the distance belonged to Wessex and Cornwall was further down. He’d known that Albion was large...and yet he’d never thought about it. He’d never tried to calculate her vast dimensions in the past – and he was almost afraid to do so now. Knowing he was meant to rule Albion from top to bottom terrified him: Arthur was more than aware that the continent was even larger than Albion.

He wasn’t the Caesar of Rome.

He didn’t have the might of an empire behind him.

How could he ever gain control of Camelot and the other realms sprawling across Albion? How could he ever keep them all prosperous and peaceful? How could he ever accomplish such an immense task without Merlin to guide him – as he was meant to and now never would?

Inadequacy lodged in his throat.

Arthur buried his face against the massive shoulder in front of him all over again. He never lifted his head again as Orpheus carried him and Percival across the sky, banking and swooping down low some time later, sharpened beak opening around a screech that trilled through the air. Swooping down through the air felt enough like falling to make his stomach twist with nausea. His hands tightened around chainmail. Arthur swallowed back a surge of vomit that would just humiliate him even more after his earlier breakdown in front of such experienced warriors. A hot wave of shame crashed through him at how pathetic he must have seemed to them – how least like a noble he must have looked when compared with the Queen of Cornwall. He’d never met her, but Merewald de Bois must have been a force to be reckoned with in order to reign for so long, regardless of the enchantment that his uncle had paid someone to place upon her. He knew all people had their strengths and weaknesses and the Queen of Cornwall must have so much more of the former; Arthur was certain he’d seem like an incompetent weakling next to her.

A storm of emotions tried to overwhelm him. His need for the man holding his heart – and for the tender reassurance that came with him – threatened to make a mess of him. Arthur forced himself to swallow it back. It wasn’t time. Merlin wanted him to be somewhere safe and Arthur hadn’t yet reached his final destination. He wasn’t safe. He wouldn’t be safe until there was no fear of falling, no fear of plummeting in to the depths of the sea or of shattering upon the earth spreading out below them now, no fear of catching a chill from the wind buffeting his frame.

The sun was beginning to set when Percival turned his head to say, “Tintagel is looming now, Your Highness.”

Arthur raised his head and peered over his shoulder, following the direction of his finger. His breath caught in his chest. White stone sourced from the southern continent glowed like snow, several balconies with ornate balustrades overlooking a deep plunge into the Great Sea of Meredor, which frothed as the waves broke against the cliffs below, the visible caves flooding with water with the tide. A white tower stretched above the citadel. A woman was carved from its surface and she bore a large gemstone shaped like an egg, her hands held out in offering, the egg casting an unnatural glow that grew brighter as the sun continued to sink beneath the horizon. It illuminated the cliffs and the breaking waves – a useful thing for ships travelling across the water at night.

The hippogriffs banked and swooped lower, passing the statue at close range. Arthur realised the carving depicted one of the Fae in an instant – her pointed ears were visible as her stone tresses seemed to catch in the same wind that buffeted him. It even seemed to make the length of her stone gown and cloak flutter and billow. Her stone face wore an earnest expression and a fine circlet of stone rested upon her brow, making it blatant that she was of noble descent among her people – whether the statue was based upon a true member of the Fae court remained to be seen.

With nowhere to land in the castle proper, the hippogriffs ferried their burdens across the gap separating the castle from its town far below; a bridge spanned the gap and joined the two locations to make the trek easier, instead of forcing servants and other household staff to travel the incline the long way, huffing and puffing with increasing effort as the castle neared. It wasn’t the sturdiest bridge he’d ever seen. That fact didn’t seem to bother the few individuals descending from the castle now, gazing up at the group and giving a raucous cheer, steps quickening as the hippogriffs swept past with a gust of displaced air, immense wings propelling them onwards.

Orpheus was the first to land at the edge of town and Arthur stared in growing awe at the sight that awaited him: the cheering from the bridge had spread into the town proper, and now people were flooding the streets in front of him. Something hot and sharp developed in his throat at the sight of bright and beaming smiles on worn and weathered faces that must have seen and survived countless coastal storms. The people of Tintagel were hardy, it seemed. Hardy, and welcoming, for the men and women shouted the same phrases over and over:

“Prince Arthur has come! Long live the Prince!”

His face was wet when Arthur dismounted at last. His knees almost buckled beneath him. It was sheer determination that kept him standing, that kept his back straight and his chin up as Percival dismounted beside him. He’d never been shown such a warm welcome in his entire life. A warm hand brushed his elbow. Arthur glanced at the more experienced rider and swallowed when Percival smiled kindly, the expression making a gentle giant of him. He gestured for Arthur to start walking, the action limited to a subtle tip of his head and remaining polite – the simple gesture ensured that Arthur understood he was expected and yet wasn’t to be hurried.

He could take as much time as he needed.

Arthur, however, nodded vigorously, his previous tribulations and his emotions threatening to overwhelm him altogether. He hovered close to Percival – a strong and kind buffer against the vast amount of people now clamouring for a scrap of his attention. His heart pounded in his chest. Discomfort twisted his stomach. His chest tightened with anxiety, Arthur feeling as though he’d been cast into a trap from which he could never escape and the walls were closing in. He forced himself to keep moving, his hand reaching out to grasp the gloved one that Ninianne held out in offer, his grip tight. She squeezed right back without question. He looked up at the shining castle and swallowed.

The Queen of Cornwall awaited him.


	34. Chapter Thirty-Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some things to note:
> 
> 1) This chapter contains dialogue from the show, though the scene and context is different. 
> 
> 2) This chapter jumps forward in time. 
> 
> 3) Caradoc isn't Igraine/Ygraine's father - according to wikipedia at least - but is an ancestor from a previous generation. I just liked the name a lot.
> 
> 4) Arthur is messed up; his reactions to his previous traumas aren't deliberate and are a result of going from a perpetual high-stress environment to a low-stress environment. This sudden shift has given his mind leave to react. Please try to be understanding; he has made an effort to get help and will keep making that effort.
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think. I look forward to hearing your thoughts.

Arthur ran a hand over the leather cover, his fingertips grazing the Pendragon and de Bois emblems embossed upon the journal his aunt had given him. Merewald had handed it to him when he’d returned from the local Druid settlement earlier that morning without ceremony, her frame almost as broad as his own and her face soft with understanding, grey eyes shining and a faint smile curling her mouth. Then she’d gone on her way, tried and tested chainmail gleaming, and a streak of soft iron crisscrossing through the length of her raven braid. He slid his gaze around the royal chamber he’d been given when he first arrived in Tintagel and it no longer bothered him to see large splashes of pristine white where blue would have dwelled in Camelot. He looked down at his writing desk – neat and tidy, his compulsion for order driving him to rearrange things himself at the end of each day, now that he’d accepted his official role in Cornwall. Arthur opened the journal with care and dipped his quill in the inkwell nearby, his heart thumping, and his throat hot and tight with rising emotion. Clearly, and carefully, he started writing in the top corner:

 

_Lughnasadh – 535 AD – almost a year after I left you._

 

Arthur dragged in a calming breath and stared down at the blank parchment bound within the handsome leather. His fingertips ghosted over the blank space before he continued writing, the first proper line of his journal slow and halting, hesitant.

_I’m not sure how to start this._

_Ansgar – a local healer I’ve been attending, one who specialises in fragile states of mind – said it wouldn’t matter how it started. All that mattered was that I start. The thought of writing to a faceless journal made this task seem so much harder, but the thought of writing to you makes it easier somehow, though I know you’ll never read these entries. I know the chances of seeing you again are almost as low as that of wedding you with a blessing from your uncle. But Ansgar told me that writing was a form of therapy; that purging thoughts and feelings and events through paper would help me clear this dark and dangerous place festering inside me. That it would help me focus in future when she and I move on to meditation and other calming exercises._

_You might be wondering why I’ve chosen to see a healer, given past difficulties with sharing, but the tale isn’t a pleasant one. I’ve been in a strange and debilitating state over the past year, oscillating between a state of hyper-awareness and lethargy, the former taking place outside these rooms and the latter occurring when I’m alone in here. Mostly, I’ve been lethargic. I crawled into bed the first night I arrived and rose rarely, unable to muster the will to leave the bed or even the energy, though some part of me often wanted to rise whenever the sun shone through the doors leading out onto the balcony. I wanted to leave the bed and yet I was never able. I wasn’t even able to handle having visitors._

_But I remembered to keep eating._

_I ate too much for how seldom I moved._

_I’ve gained weight since I came here and never noticed until recently, until I happened to glance in the mirror and the reflection stared back at me from a face I no longer recognised. That single glance in the mirror reminded me so much of Jeffrey, of all the cruel things he said to me when I was a boy, and I started throwing up._

_I threw up until I was sprawled across the floor, naked and wet after bathing, and shaking so hard one would have thought I’d caught a chill of some sort._

Arthur paused in his writing, his vision blurring at the force of the recollection. His free hand drifted down to his abdomen and clutched at the red tunic covering the expanded thickness of his middle. Remembered nausea churned his stomach. It took some time to calm down enough to keep writing, to keep purging the thoughts that continued to fester inside him.

 

_I needed help and had no idea who to turn to. I had no idea who could help me. I thought I had to do it alone and that thought terrified me more than you could ever understand._

_I was convinced that I’d fail._

_An hour passed before I managed to rise and start cleaning, terrified of inviting someone in to see the mess I’d made because I was weak when I should’ve been so much stronger – terrified of letting someone see that I was broken inside. I was terrified that I wasn’t a Prince worth serving, worth fighting for, or even worth their continued loyalty; that I never deserved the warm welcome I received when I first arrived. I was still shaking when I dressed at last and left the royal chamber, fear and desperation blooming inside me. That was when the hyperawareness started kicking in again – as it did whenever I managed to muster strength enough to venture outside and roam the endless corridors of a place I could never consider home._

_How can it ever be home when you aren’t here with me?_

_I’ve never felt more at home than when I was with you._

_I miss you._

_I miss you so much._

_But I digress._

_As I was saying a moment ago: I was on edge as I hastened through corridor after corridor and down staircase after staircase. I was twitching, jumping at each impenetrable shadow, at each faint noise that reached me. It was the same irrational terror I felt whenever I ventured outside these rooms. I knew I was safe in Cornwall and yet I couldn’t escape the fear that someone would hate me as much as your uncle does. That someone would attempt something. That uncontrollable fear snapped inside me when someone surprised me from behind and touched my shoulder, and I whirled around to strike them as hard as I could._

_It was Gwen._

_I’d hit Gwen._

Arthur set down his quill with a shaking hand and rose from his chair, his head swimming with painful and unbearable memories. He crossed the room and braced his hands against the mantelpiece. The healed bones in his hand ached something fierce. He wasn’t supposed to be using it much yet – his muscles were still recuperating, still regaining strength after so much time spent in a sling. Arthur had to heal the long way; he no longer had a crystal filled with loving magic that he could turn to. He wasn’t sure he even deserved to heal after what he’d done to Gwen – unconscious or not. He wasn’t sure he’d ever deserve the forgiveness and understanding she’d granted him when he’d managed to choke out an explanation the next day, his uninjured hand clutched between both of hers.

A minute or two passed before Arthur mustered courage enough to return to his chair, picking up the quill once more. He continued writing with careful strokes of his quill and made sure that each word was legible.

 

_I broke down at the realisation of what I’d done. I was choking on tears when I fell upon her and crushed her against me. I was sobbing so hard that I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t breathe even as I apologised over and over, choking on regret and grief and enough loathing directed inward to sink an entire ship. I was still choking out apologies when I blacked out._

_I woke up alone in the infirmary, and I thought she hated me. I broke down all over again at the thought. I couldn’t bear the idea that I’d driven her away, that I’d broken something between us just as the weakened bones within this damned hand had broken when I struck her. Merewald walked through the door then and sat on the chair beside the bed. She said nothing, but watched me heave and sob until nothing remained inside me but emptiness. Until I went numb from feeling so much._

_“I heard you struck your sister,” Merewald said quietly, her grey eyes still fastened upon me. Her face was cast in shadow; the sun had long set. I wasn’t even sure how long I’d been out cold. I didn’t care. All that mattered was that Gwen hated me for what I’d done and I couldn’t blame her in the least. I hated me. “Care to explain?”_

_“I never wanted to –”_

_“Hit your sister? I do know that much. We haven’t known each other long, but I’ve noticed things about you whenever we do spend time together, and I know you’re the gentle sort. You wouldn’t lash out without cause.” Merewald leaned forward in the chair, her uneven jaw becoming more pronounced in the darkness while her mouth and nose were revealed in the sparse light coming through the window overhead. She made no attempt to touch me and I’m not sure why; maybe she thought I’d snap and lash out again. Maybe she thought I’d rather not be touched. That wasn’t the case. I just wanted a hug from someone that still loved me. I turned my face away; I couldn’t look at her. “But I also know not all reactions are rational – not all thoughts are rational. Sometimes the things we’ve experienced take control when we least want them to.”_

_“We?”_

_“You think you’re the first person to have personal demons?”_

_I looked at her then._

_She offered a smile and it was broken._

_I realised then that I’d found someone that understood what I was going through in some fashion or another, and that thought had my vision blurring even as my heart gave a relieved leap._

_“I don’t know what to do,” I whispered and Merewald touched me at last. She captured my uninjured hand and squeezed gently, squeezed and stroked until I broke down for the third time. That was when she hugged me for the first time. I’d thought there was nothing left inside me and I was wrong, so wrong, for the tears kept coming. She climbed into bed with me and remained until morning._

_It makes me wonder how Mother would have reacted._

_I’ll never know._

_I wish I did._

_I wish for so much...too much. Perhaps for more than I deserve._

_Unintentionally, Merewald is twice as intimidating as I expected – when I’m not in the middle of falling to pieces at least. I almost threw up on her when we first met. I was just so nervous. But she took it in her stride. She takes it all in her stride. Merewald carries herself like a warrior, and trains with the Knights each day, honing her strength and sharpening her reflexes. I imagine she could break you in half with little effort. That thought alone terrifies me. I still remember the look in her eye when I first confessed how I felt about you after we started having regular lunches in her quarters after that incident with Gwen. She looked torn between throwing the private dining table out the window and crossing the distance to challenge you to a duel. Or maybe she wanted to challenge the King. Honestly, I’m not sure which. Part of me wonders whether Merewald believed you took advantage of me or something, whether she thought I’d been too vulnerable and impressionable to know how I feel about you. Maybe she feared magical coercion – an understandable fear, given how her traitorous brother had a sorcerer violate her mind for more than two decades. All I know is that it took her forever to calm down and cross the room to wrap her arms around me. She held me like I mattered and told me it was okay, that whatever I felt was valid as long as I was certain – as long as there wasn’t a shadow of doubt when I thought of how I felt about you._

_I have no doubt about how I feel._

_I love you._

_I’ll never stop loving you._

_One day, though the chances are too slim to bear, I hope we meet again and rekindle at least some tattered scrap of what we had before I brought our life together crumbling down around us._

_I hope your undeserved forgiveness lasts._

Arthur set down his quill for the last time that day, and rose from his chair, his spine aching from hunching over the journal. He pressed his good hand against his lower back and started twisting, nice and slow, working out the knots that had developed during his first session of journaling. He moved out onto the balcony, rested his hands upon the balustrade and gazed out across the Great Sea of Meredor, remembering the endless storms that had raged against the cliffs the previous winter, winds howling like enraged beasts and the waves crashing hard enough to send up a fine spray.

Such moments were included in the few occasions that Arthur managed to get out of bed over the past year. The howling winds had drawn him outside like a siren singing. He’d let his head tip back as he stood in the midst of nature at its wildest and he’d let the rain soak through his nightshirt to his vulnerable skin. He’d let the wind shove at him with aggressive force. Having the endless and devastating might of nature surrounding him was almost like being home. It was almost like being with Merlin whenever the force of him became wild and untameable and ferocious. It was almost like being back in that last morning in Ealdor, the pair of them joined together, that indomitable power crashing through him. It was similar enough to make his heart clench in his chest even as his manhood throbbed with want and he’d lain down upon the sodden stone to luxuriate in the rough caress of nature.

How he’d avoided catching a chill that winter was a mystery, Arthur knew as he braced his forearms against the balustrade and leaned forward lazily, watching seagulls soar through the air.

One of them screeched and another answered at once.

A tired smile curled his mouth.

Cornwall wasn’t his home. But it would become his responsibility one day, Arthur having been named Heir Apparent of Cornwall before he was even born. His mother had promised her firstborn in order to receive a blessing from the Queen of Cornwall to go ahead with her marriage to Uther Pendragon. She’d promised that he would spend half the year in Tintagel from the time he started speaking full sentences. Merewald and Tristan had been in Camelot on the night he’d been born – to lend strength and support to their younger sister and meet their nephew, the promised Heir Apparent of Cornwall – while Agravaine remained in Tintagel to oversee the realm in their absence.

His father, shaking hands still cradling a newborn and wailing Arthur, had croaked his claim that the arrangement became null and void after Ygraine took her last breath. Stricken and reeling from the emotional blow, Merewald hadn’t argued – a choice she’d had more than two decades to regret.

Uther Pendragon had blamed magic for the death of his wife.

Tristan de Bois had blamed Uther.

And Agravaine had blamed them both.

His smile fracturing, Arthur sighed and bowed his head. Silence reigned for several long moments and then a gentle breeze ruffled his hair, the faint scent of salt coming with it. He looked out across the water again.  

The Great Sea of Meredor was calm now, but it generated enormous waves during the winter; no captain dared to set sail during that perilous season. He’d learned at least that much since he’d accepted his official duties as Heir Apparent of Cornwall. His official and ceremonial crowning as Crown Prince would take place as soon as his hand finished healing, or so Merewald had informed him the previous evening when he’d mustered enough courage to ask about it. The goldsmith and the seamstresses were working hard already; the lot of them were eager to bring something perfect for Arthur to wear at the ceremony, though Arthur was tempted to tell them that he was fine with dressing in something comfortable. Something he’d now wear on a typical day, which was far finer than what he’d worn as manservant to the Crown Prince of Camelot and Mercia – not that he often spoke about the years he’d spent serving the kind and loving usurper of a position that once would have been his to claim.

Arthur knew, however, that such a wish was no longer acceptable. The clothes he wore now were fine for private dining and visiting the library, and maybe even good enough for a feast day, but wouldn’t do for an occasion as important as his crowning. He looked down at the ring now adorning his left forefinger; it was simple and yet as handsome as a silver band could be – with a shield knot repeating over and over, a talisman of protection against illness and bad omens. It once belonged to his grandfather, Caradoc, who’d passed in his sleep some years before he was born. He’d been presented with the ring on the morning he’d accepted his role as Heir Apparent. Arthur ran his thumb across the surface and remembered the ancestral heirloom he’d left behind in Ealdor; he just hoped William found Carnwennan and cared for her in his absence.

A faint knock summoned him from his thoughts.

Arthur straightened and glanced over his shoulder, beckoning them inside with a clear word of admission. Gwen appeared in the distant doorway, clad in one of the numerous new gowns she’d been fitted for when Merewald insisted the people who took him in as a child be treated as noble kin. Red was her colour, it seemed. But it just served to remind him of what he’d done. It reminded him of the bruised swelling that once decorated her face and existed now in his memory, his heart clenching in pain whenever Arthur looked at Gwen. He raised his arm in welcome as she joined him on the balcony, and his heartache eased a fraction when Gwen let herself be enfolded into an embrace. She hugged him back even tighter and pressed a kiss to his cheek before withdrawing and looking out at the Great Sea of Meredor.

“How was your session this morning?”

“Good.” Arthur fiddled with the ring on his finger. Despair flickered at the back of his mind and the bed called out to him. He swallowed and straightened his back even further in an attempt to ignore it. “Strange. I don’t know. She looks at me like...like I’m normal.”

“You _are_ normal.” Gwen looked askance at him. Arthur shifted in discomfort under the weight of her concern and sympathy, knowing he’d never deserve it after what he did to her. “You just have an invisible broken limb that needs healing. That isn’t your fault.”

“I don’t feel normal.”

“You will.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I have faith in you.” Gwen rested her hand on his good arm and squeezed just so. His vision started blurring. Arthur blinked the resultant sting away, his vision clearing, and focused on the sunlight shimmering across the great expanse of water; the gentle wash of waves below reached him with ease. The Great Sea of Meredor had a calming effect upon him now that Arthur was starting to take time enough to admire her vast splendour. He might never again be happy, but he was no longer volatile now that he’d started visiting the Druid settlement and the healer therein...and that was as much as he could hope for at the moment. “We all do. The road ahead might seem too long now, but you can make the journey, and we’ll be here to support you when you stumble.”

Arthur looked at his adoptive sister and managed to muster a strained smile. He wasn’t sure he could make the journey, but he’d do his best. He’d do his best for Gwen.

“You know, I think I know what might do you some good right now.” Her hand tightened around his wrist and started tugging, and Arthur followed her lead at once. Gwen looked determined. She pulled him over to the wardrobe and opened it to find one of the burlap sacks stored at the base. She shoved it into his hands. He held the burlap sack open obligingly, curious as she went over to the linen cupboard and withdrew one of several folded blankets. Gwen placed it inside the burlap sack and smiled up at him. “We’re going down to the kitchens next.”

Arthur tensed as soon as he and Gwen stepped out into the corridor, but he shouldered the burlap sack and let her catch his good hand in a reassuring grip. She stroked the back of his hand. His shoulders loosened a fraction when her smile broadened. Only the faint shadow staining the skin beneath her eyes provided evidence that she wasn’t the same person she’d been before the execution attempt. He knew Gwen wasn’t sleeping well. Tom had told him as much when he’d visited Arthur the other evening, his expression tentative and yet happy, his adoptive father holding himself back until Arthur closed the distance to crush him in the first embrace shared between them in months.

His adoptive brother was dealing with his own torments in the one fashion he knew how: facing off against bandits on behalf of the crown. Arthur could still remember the moment Elyan swept into the infirmary, the snow white cloak of Cornish Knighthood billowing, the red gryphon of the House of de Bois like blood upon a bandage. He’d been knighted while Arthur was trapped in that lethargic haze – all of the men that had fought for him in Camelot and flew to Cornwall with him had been. Arthur had tensed at the sight of him. He’d expected a punch for what he’d done to their sister, considering the endless waves of anger that rolled off his adoptive brother, and he’d tried to get out of the bed before a hit could land. Elyan had thrown himself into the chair instead and ran a frustrated hand over his face before sighing, “Gwen told me it was an accident. I’m having trouble seeing how, given how swollen her face is. I find it hard to imagine you punching someone accidentally; you’ve never done something like that while in your senses before. What on earth happened?”

“You know what happened –”

“I know what happened to Gwen.” Elyan had stared at him shrewdly, his mouth tightening a fraction. “I know what you went through when you were younger, what you went through with the other children in the town. But I don’t know about all the things you went through in that damned castle. I’ve seen comrades whispering to each other, but _none_ of them ever whispered to _me_. All I know is that you fought like a man possessed in that dungeon cell!” He’d risen from the chair and started pacing, prowling like a feline. “I saw that rage rise up inside you. I saw that murderous gleam in your eye. You were going to kill Bayard and now you’re lashing out at the oddest moments? Lashing out because someone touched you? What has that bastard _done_ to you?” Elyan had stopped then as though struck with some notion and had whirled around to stare at him in rising despair, the expression underscored with some primal fear, his chest heaving hard beneath gleaming chainmail as he’d rushed toward the bed. “Did he...did he force himself on you?”

“No,” Arthur had choked out immediately, recoiling at the idea of King Bayard violating him in such a way, recoiling at the memories stored inside his head: memories of being threatened with enslavement to King Alined. The King of Deorham had no compunctions against forcing someone against their will. He’d swallowed against the urge to vomit at the idea and captured the nearest forearm in a tight grip. His voice had cracked down the middle as he’d stared up at his elder brother. “I’d never have let him do that. I’d have killed him before I let him do that. I’d...I’d have jumped out the window sooner than suffer that. But I can...I can take a beating. I’ve done it before. I’m...I can take it.”

Elyan had continued to stare at Arthur, his jaw working, mouth almost shaping words that just wouldn’t come. Mindful of his injury, he’d crushed Arthur in a hug then.

Shaking his head to dislodge the memory, Arthur focused upon the here and now with Gwen. He knew she grew concerned whenever his head started to drift – whenever she thought he might be slipping back into the darkness that lurked at the back of his mind. The darkness that prowled forward whenever Arthur settled into the bed he’d been given since his arrival in Cornwall. Just sleeping was proving to be an enormous challenge: his mind kept repeating the worst of his thoughts and the worst of his memories over and over, his frame tensing, hands twitching as he oscillated between bitterness and terror and uncontrollable rage.

The words he’d spoken in that dungeon cell almost a year ago were truer than he’d ever imagined: King Bayard had won. He’d succeeded in breaking Arthur at last.

His bed called out to him again.

Arthur raised his chin and continued walking, refusing to return to the bed until he had no choice remaining, until night fell and he would be expected to slip between the sheets and remain there until morning. His stomach twisted at the thought. His new bed was far softer than the one back home and yet it wasn’t the least bit comfortable. Arthur suspected it was because Merlin wasn’t with him. It wasn’t just a door separating them from each other now, but an ocean as the crow flies and two realms on horseback. Merlin might as well have been on another continent.

Gwen squeezed his hand tighter when it started to tremble.

Arthur spared a tired smile for each of the servants or guardsmen passing, all of whom seemed delighted to see him out and about for the seventh week in a row, each one of them greeting him with respectful enthusiasm. It was still strange and uncomfortable to hear people addressing him in such a manner, addressing him as he would have addressed his former master, though he’d grown up being treated with less care than the earth beneath their feet. His lower back still broke out in a nervous sweat whenever someone bowed to him.

Some irrational part of him kept expecting King Bayard to emerge from around a corner or a pillar, quick hand snaring his throat and slamming him up against the nearest wall to squeeze the life out of him for daring to accept even a fraction of his heritage. He kept expecting some assassin to slice his throat open to prevent him from reaching whatever potential Merlin had imagined inside him. Such a thing wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility; the King of Camelot and Mercia hated him more than enough to orchestrate such a thing.

Some unspoken part of him also kept expecting Merewald to change her mind about his new position in Cornwall. He kept expecting her to decide he wasn’t fit enough to be her nephew, let alone fit enough to be her chosen heir, but Merewald made a point of telling him that he was fine. That he was doing fine for someone who’d never been in such a position before. His aunt often said that his new position was a constant learning curve and he’d grow accustomed to it eventually, but Arthur wasn’t so certain about that. He wasn’t certain he’d take to ruling with as much aplomb as Merlin once believed or Merewald now believed he could. He wasn’t certain he was capable of bearing the weight now coming down to rest upon the span of his shoulders.

Arthur wondered whether this was how the Grecian Titan – Atlas – felt beneath the immense weight of the sky, whether he’d felt like he would crumble beneath it and be crushed against the earth beneath him.

His stomach twisted at the thought of failure.

“Can you just stop for a while?”

“Stop what?”

“Thinking,” Gwen answered easily, giving him a knowing look. “You’re getting that look on your face.”

“What look?”

“The one that shows up when you start thinking you’re not good enough – which is a complete load of manure.” Gwen quickened her pace and Arthur hastened to keep up with her, his skin heating for more reasons than one. Her expression grew fierce. “The Queen has been ruling this realm for more than two decades and she thinks you’re more than capable of handling the duties waiting for you. Bayard hated you because he saw the potential burning inside you – you know that. He saw your warm and noble heart and your fierce loyalty, and the strength and courage that remained despite how hard he and others tried to crush it underfoot. Your potential just grew brighter after His Highness hired you as his manservant. You’ve helped people. You’ve made a difference. Bayard wasn’t blind. He saw the people start changing their opinions of you. He saw the growing respect and admiration His Highness and the council directed at you. Arthur, people tend to hate what we fear the most and he feared your noble heart so much that he never paused to consider how beneficial an alliance with you might be. His fear made a threat of you.” His adoptive sister looked at him and her dark eyes blazed with so much anger, with immense pride and determination and encouragement. “You’re still a threat now. You’ll be a greater threat tomorrow. You’ll become an even greater threat with each passing day, and he’ll discover you’ve surpassed him while he wasn’t looking. You’ll squash him.”

“I find your confidence in me alarming,” Arthur mumbled as he looked away, though his heart gave a leap in his chest. His face flamed under the influence of her unwarranted praise. “I’m not that much of a threat. I’m not sure I could squash an insect right now.”

“You’ll get there.”

“I will?”

“You will. Your training regime will start soon enough. Lancelot told me so!”

Arthur chuckled in amusement at the mention of that besotted fool and then faltered when he realised it was the first time he’d laughed since he’d escaped from Camelot. It was the first time he’d laughed since he’d abandoned Merlin. He went rigid and almost yanked Gwen’s arm from her socket when he stopped without warning while her momentum kept going, earning a squawk of surprise from his adoptive sister when she almost fell back against him. Arthur croaked an apology, and started moving; he shook his head to dislodge the shock his laugh had given him. He started thinking about the subject of his amusement all over again.

Lancelot had come knocking upon his door less than a week earlier, wondering whether the pair might have a word in private. He’d been quick to raise a quelling hand and say, “I’m not the person you need to be asking; Guinevere is her own woman and the power to grant courtship lies with her alone. I’d suggest you ask her instead.”

The startled expression on his handsome face had been priceless.

“How did you know I was going to ask –?”

“Because you start glowing whenever you see her,” Arthur had answered easily, a strained and somewhat tired smile curling his mouth. He’d rested his head against the doorframe and let himself remember how it felt to be the one glowing when spending time with the person he loved more than the world. “You’re a kind fellow, and she likes your company, and the worst she can do is offer a polite decline. But she might surprise you. Just ask her and find out.”

Lancelot had bowed his head respectfully, turning to leave before pausing and looking over his shoulder, asking, “Do you think I have a chance?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur had answered quietly, his smile broadening faintly, “but you might regret never finding out.”

He’d watched the Knight hasten away, white cloak billowing, remembering the times he’d seen the blue cloak Merlin wore doing the same. His heart had clenched in his chest and he’d turned away, disappearing back into his chambers as the door swung closed behind him.

He’d crawled into bed.

He’d wept into his pillow then and now he was capable of laughing again.

Maybe there _was_ hope for him.


	35. Chapter Thirty-Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some things to note:
> 
> 1) This chapter has some heavy themes. I'll understand if some find aspects of the chapter difficult to read. 
> 
> 2) Morien is an Arthurian Figure, but wasn't a sailor.
> 
> 3) Someone else we know and love makes an appearance in this chapter.
> 
> 4) British waters do have sharks. Sharks known to live in or be spotted in British waters include: oceanic white-tip; nurse; sharpnose sevengill; shortfin mako; blue; nursehound; angel.
> 
> Great Whites have not been documented. However, corpses of sharks have washed up on British sand with wounds consistent with Great White bites. Not seeing one doesn't mean they're never there. 
> 
> As always, feel free to let me know what you think.

Gwen led him across the bridge separating Tintagel Castle from the town and then even farther, smiling at him as the pair continued downhill. Arthur burned with curiosity; he hadn’t been this far downhill since he’d arrived in Cornwall: the Druid settlement was further up the cliffs. The almost blinding shimmer across the rolling waves shifted and danced as Gwen led him along the earthen path running parallel to the harbour, where numerous ships were moored and the docklands were busy, alive with fishermen and the crewmen that manned the various merchant vessels.

The merchant vessels weren’t that different from the Scandinavian Knarr, a ship he’d read about just two weeks earlier. The librarian had been eager and helpful when he first entered the library, offering his services when Arthur grew overwhelmed at the sheer size of the collection: it was much larger than the one in Camelot. He’d been quick to make note of the numerous things Arthur wished to learn about and had led him straight to the collection on sailing and then to shipbuilding, picking out the texts most recommended. He’d cordoned off a section of the library, ensuring that Arthur wouldn’t be disturbed during his studies – a fact that Arthur had appreciated immensely, his shoulders tense with discomfort at being out and about in the open. He’d remained in sight the entire time and offered an encouraging smile whenever Arthur happened to glance his way, running a curious eye over russet curls and well-maintained facial hair.

Arthur had learned later that the librarian – Leon Leodegrance – had been a subject of Camelot before he’d been fostered in Cornwall the year Arthur was born. He’d lived through five summers then. His foster parents had kept him after the King of Mercia and his forces infiltrated the castle. Most of the nobles had been killed during the siege and another large number were executed for their outspoken devotion to the Pendragon line after Estienne Bayard named himself King of Camelot. Few were robbed of lands and titles and his true parents weren’t among them.  

Now, however, the view of the harbour proved to be an enormous distraction as Gwen continued to lead him elsewhere. His heart gave a leap when he spotted a familiar name inscribed with gold lettering in the distance.

Arthur extricated himself from his adoptive sister, his heart thumping, and blood roaring in his ears as he abandoned the burlap sack and stumbled in his haste to reach the docklands. He ducked under folded sails being carried to ships being repaired and almost lost his head when a stack of planks swung his away, ducking at the last second and earning a sharp reprimand from one of the crewmen operating the winch. Arthur choked out an apology, but kept moving, his palms sweating, unable to stop until the gold and curling letters stared back at him from the water.

Arthur reached out with a shaking hand and closed his eyes when the faintest rolling wave carried the merchant vessel a foot closer to the pier, his fingertips grazing against smooth wood. Wood groaned and the receding wave carried her away, and Arthur almost stepped off the pier after her. He stopped himself at the last second and wobbled for a moment in his effort to regain his balance.

Arthur opened his eyes and cast a searching gaze along her side to find some means of entry, and preferably something that wouldn’t require jumping across the water – he wasn’t certain he could gather enough momentum to propel himself up and forward in order to board the ship. He spotted the gangway in less than a moment. His heart jumped into his throat. He took one step and then another, the distance preventing him from boarding the ship closing with each one taken. His heart tried to punch a hole through the apple in his throat as Arthur came to a stop at the top of the gangway, managing to remember not to board without permission from the captain – who was leaning against the mast and had his head buried in a map.

“Captain?”

The captain straightened up at the unexpected address and almost dropped the map when his gaze snapped up and he spotted Arthur, who fiddled with the ring adorning his finger to prevent himself from bolting; the captain seemed like the gruff sort with little patience for incompetence. He was an older man marred with age and experience. His tan face looked as worn down as the cliffs beneath Tintagel Castle. Suspended from a leather cord hanging from his neck was a large and triangular tooth with serrated edges. The captain stared at him in growing amusement as Arthur fidgeted in place before stepping forward and asking, “Did you want to ask something, Your Highness?”

“Uh...” His face flamed in embarrassment. Arthur coughed to clear his throat and forced himself to stop fidgeting, choosing instead to clasp his hands behind his back. It made his back straighten and his shoulders draw back. It made him seem far more confident than he felt as his embarrassment ebbed like the tide making the ship rise and fall beneath their feet. Arthur looked out across the water for a moment and then focused his attention upon the captain. “I noticed the name of the ship while passing. Permission to come aboard?”

“Naturally, Sire.” The captain bowed his head in a show of respect. Arthur boarded the ship immediately, his heart continuing to thump with nerves. The captain rolled up the map and watched as Arthur swept his gaze over each detail in sight – from the handsome wooden planks spanning the deck to the large sail furled overhead. The red gryphon glowed above the sail at the heart of a snow white banner, the material rippling in the same sea breeze that ruffled his hair. Arthur looked at the captain and swallowed upon seeing the knowing expression that softened weathered features. “I’m honoured to have you aboard the Ygraine. Is there something I can do for you?”

“Obviously, I’d never want to get in the way, but I’d appreciate the chance to sit around for a while.” Arthur looked out across the water, focusing upon the shimmer, his heart having moved into his mouth because it must have sounded like the most ridiculous request. His stomach knotted. He wasn’t a sailor. He knew nothing about sailing, apart from what he’d read in the library, and that hadn’t even been helpful in his attempt to learn: the texts had used numerous terms he wasn’t familiar with and he’d been too mortified to ask the librarian for a dictionary. But he wanted to learn. Arthur wanted to know what his future subjects had to deal with to make a living, to survive in his future realm. He wanted to know what he could do to help them along. “I won’t be offended should you decline.”

“We’ll be loading the ship soon.” The apologetic note in his gruff voice summoned his attention at once. The captain looked at him curiously, head tilting, before asking, “May I speak freely, Sire?”

Arthur nodded his head in acknowledgement and his shoulders tightened with discomfort. He wasn’t accustomed to hearing people ask him for permission to speak openly, and it was a jarring reminder that he was expected to act like a noble. It was a reminder that he wasn’t the man he’d been when he fled Camelot the previous year, but a pebble expected to act like a gemstone.

“You’re not a sailor; anyone here can tell that much. You’re skittish and uncomfortable and I can’t imagine why your sort would want to be out here – aside from the obvious.” The captain dipped his head in respect to that sensitive subject. Arthur couldn’t quell the twisting of his stomach and took an immediate step back as the captain continued speaking, his voice quiet and understanding, but firm all the same. “The Queen of Camelot was a great woman and it was an honour to be given command of the ship named after her, but the Ygraine isn’t a person. She isn’t your mother.”

“I know that.” Arthur raised his chin in a show of stubbornness despite the urge to hasten back to his adoptive sister, his throat burning with humiliation. He wasn’t certain what was worse: that his need for more connections to his mother was so blatant or the acknowledgement that he wasn’t good enough to stand on a floating tree. It took some effort to keep his voice even. “And I know I’m not a sailor, but I want to learn. This realm will be mine to rule one day; I want to understand the difficulties you and your kin face to make a living, to put food on the table and survive throughout the year. I’ve gained some knowledge of farming, but none of sailing or fishing, though you’ll find that I’m a diligent student. I’m also a strong swimmer. I’m not uncomfortable in the water at all.”

“You can swim?”

“I learned to swim in the rivers when I was a boy,” Arthur answered quickly, his confidence boosting, bolstering him against the blatant surprise rippling across weathered features. He took a step forward. “Surely, having grown up near the water, hearing a man knows how to swim can’t be that much of a surprise. You must all be strong swimmers!”

 “None of us know how to swim! We’d prefer to drown.” The captain paled spectacularly, his hand rising to clutch the tooth hanging from his neck. He looked out across the calm surface of the water. His grip tightened. Arthur watched him curiously, his mind starting to calculate the dimensions of the gaping mouth that must have spawned such a tooth...and stopped when he realised his variables were incomplete. Frustration gnawed at him. He’d never liked being unable to complete a calculation. The captain continued to stare out across the water, his voice dropping to almost less than a whisper, as though he were almost afraid to be heard. “There are beasts out there that you wouldn’t like to meet when swimming, Your Highness – beasts that can swim faster than a man ever could.”

“Is that where that tooth came from?”

“Yes.” The captain looked at him. “A twelve foot blue washed up on the sand when I was a child and this tooth was embedded in its corpse. Blue teeth are a fraction of the size.”

Arthur gave a low whistle of amazement. His heart thumped in his chest. It wasn’t hard to imagine a beast large enough to take down a twelve foot predator after encountering enormous dragons in the past. He knew, however, that the most dangerous animal was the one silent and unseen. Arthur looked out across the water, unsurprised that something so peaceful and serene could conceal something so dangerous. It wasn’t the first time he’d come across such a thing. His chin lifted a fraction more and he turned to look at the captain.

“I want to learn.”

“Then come back to me in the winter.”

“No one sails in the winter!”

“I know,” the captain answered immediately, an amused expression flickering across his tan face. He pointed the rolled map at him. “But I won’t have time to start teaching you until then. I’ll be at sea until the end of autumn. Take it or leave it – your choice.”

“I’ll take it.” Arthur held his hand out immediately, unable to stop the beaming smile that bloomed across his face. For a moment he forgot what it felt like to be exhausted and miserable. “Thank you for being willing, Captain...?”

“Morien...and don’t mention it.” The gruff note in his voice returned fully, the captain grasping his forearm in return. “I’m making no promises. You’ll either pick it up or you won’t. I can’t help with the latter, Your Highness.”

Arthur almost asked the captain to use his name in return and remembered himself at the last second. He couldn’t be seen to show such favouritism when he hadn’t been in Cornwall long at all. His smile dimmed somewhat and he turned away, thanking Captain Morien once again as he disembarked from the merchant vessel. He hastened back across the docklands with more care than he had during his arrival and returned to his adoptive sister, who stared at him in surprise and no small amount of annoyance.

“What was that all about?”

“Sailing,” Arthur answered easily, that burst of euphoria returning at the thought of learning how to sail in the long months to come. He shouldered the burlap sack all over again. “I’m going to learn how soon enough. I’m looking forward to it.”

A spring entered his step as Gwen snared his hand and continued to lead him past the harbour, the pair of them walking for almost an hour before reaching a strip of sand that stretched along the coast for miles. The sea breeze was stronger now, buffeting Arthur and Gwen. He loved the strong scent of salt on the air, loved how the water came forward in a gentle rush to ripple across sand and pebbles in its effort to reach him. He stumbled a little when his boots lost their grip in the sand and sank deeper, the sand doing its best to entrap him. A bewildered chuckle escaped him. He’d never walked through sand before. His spirit easing, Arthur unlaced his boots and stripped his feet until he could feel the sand between his toes. Another chuckle escaped him as both soft and rough grains tickled him. His toes curled in the sand. His eyes drifted closed for a long moment as Arthur drew in a lungful of sea air, his chest expanding as far as it could. His head tipped back and Gwen laughed beside him.

“I knew this would do you some good.” Gwen tugged at his wrist and Arthur followed after her, his eyes drifting back open. He followed her until Gwen found the perfect spot. She took the burlap sack from him and pulled out the blanket she’d packed earlier, spreading it out across the sand and using a stone for a weight in each corner. She flopped down then and squinted up at Arthur, who smiled again before joining her, his frame limp for the first time since he’d left his chambers. Arthur settled down upon the blanket and luxuriated in the autumn sunshine sprawling across his body, luxuriated in the sound of the waves washing across the shore and the seagulls gliding overhead. Gwen turned her head toward him and smiled. “I’m glad you have something to look forward to.”

Arthur hummed in agreement.

He wasn’t aware of much more after that until Gwen poked him awake and offered him an apple. His stomach grumbled at the sight of it. Arthur, however, mumbled his decline and turned his face away, choosing instead to gaze at the water surging closer and closer with the incoming tide.

“Arthur,” Gwen said quietly, a firm note in her voice. Arthur sighed and turned over slowly, his frame still sluggish from sleep. He peered up at her through his weariness. She poked him again and waved the apple in his face. The sight of it repulsed him and tempted him at the same time. “Don’t be stubborn. You need to eat something.”

“I’m fine.”

“I’d believe you – except you’re a terrible liar and I heard your stomach grumbling a minute ago.” Gwen frowned down at him when he refused to take the apple. “You can’t stop eating just because you gained some weight. It isn’t the end of the world.”

Arthur snorted and pushed himself to his feet. He avoided looking at his adoptive sister and stumbled away, his tired frame taking a moment or two to regain equilibrium. He crossed the sand until he reached the water and dropped on his arse with a low grunt. Wet sand squelched beneath him. Arthur grimaced at the feeling, but made no effort to move away, his brief discomfort at the sensation ebbing as the water rippled forward to caress his upper thighs and backside. He wrapped his arms around his knees and stared out across the water, his stomach twisting, his throat burning, aware that Gwen meant well and unable to reconcile it with the emotions churning inside him whenever he thought about the weight he’d gained since his arrival in Cornwall.

He had stretch marks now where Merlin once kissed him.

Arthur could remember Merlin admitting he liked the extra padding, but he was sure there had to be a line somewhere. He was sure there had to be a line where Merlin would stop finding him attractive or even stop loving him. His throat constricted at the thought. His lungs protested. His vision spotting, Arthur forced his mind to slow down until some small measure of calm washed over him and he dragged in a lungful of air, his hands trembling as Arthur buried them in his hair. He focused on his breathing, his eyes watering, doing his best to keep in mind what he’d felt during his sessions with Ansgar; sessions he’d spent sprawled across the grass and breathing, listening to the sounds of the waves far below, Ansgar humming some distance away, her wizened hands weaving the net spread out across her lap.

Gwen settled down beside him without a word. She offered no grimace when the sand squelched beneath her. She wrapped a gentle arm around him instead and pulled him closer, and Arthur offered no resistance as his head came to rest against her shoulder. He’d lost count of how often he’d fallen apart over the last seven weeks. He’d lost count of how often she’d comforted him when he could no longer hold the jagged fragments of himself together. Gentle fingers carded through his hair. Gwen sat with him until he went limp and then guided him back to the blanket some distance away, Arthur offering no argument when she handed him the apple she’d offered earlier.

The pair ate in relative silence.

Arthur managed to eat most of the portion set aside for him without his stomach twisting, but Gwen made no attempt to needle him into eating the rest. She seemed pleased that he’d eaten something in the first place. It wasn’t a secret that he was struggling with eating, Arthur knew, having collapsed on the staircase nearest his chambers after eating nothing but the barest lunch for almost a week. He might have broken his neck had Sir Percival and Sir Gwaine not been with him at the time. Apparently, it had been a scramble to stop him from toppling down the stairs. Arthur couldn’t remember most of what happened in the moments preceding his collapse – just an uncontrollable wave of dizziness that washed over him as his tired and aching muscles burned from use. He’d walked through the unfamiliar castle over and over, constructing an internal map from top to bottom and exercising his muscles for the whole day, but for the hour he’d spent with the Queen of Cornwall during lunch. He’d eaten a handful of berries and a single slice of mild cheese while Merewald scrutinised him from the other side of the private dining table and asked about his childhood.

“You keep talking about the time you spent with family,” Merewald had said after swallowing a mouthful of water, eyes sharper than a blade as she watched Arthur, “but what about your friends? What did you do with them? How much mischief did you get into with them?”

“I didn’t have any,” Arthur had muttered as he’d shifted in his chair, his face flaming as his aunt began frowning, setting her goblet down on the private dining table and straightening in her own chair. He’d been too uncomfortable to mention the countless years he’d spent being shoved into the dirt and beaten and ridiculed without relent. “I’m not good with people.”

“You’re just –”

“Pathetic?”

“Shy,” Merewald had chided sharply, her expression stern for a moment before softening all over again. “You seem fine with Percival and the others. Arthur, you’ve charmed a lot of people here.”

“Mother charmed them and I remind them of her; that isn’t the same thing as charming them.” Arthur had looked away, had looked out the window, where he could see one of the ships in the distance heading out for Hibernia. “People keep telling me how wonderful she was.”

“She _was_ wonderful.”

“But hearing that makes me feel like I can’t live up to her!”

“Arthur,” Merewald had said gently, reaching across the table to capture his good hand – which had curled into a fist beside his almost barren plate. The gentle touch had summoned his attention back to her. “You aren’t meant to live up to your mother. No one can live up to Ygraine de Bois. We’re all different. We aren’t comparable in the least. The one thing we all have in common is that we have our own strengths and weaknesses – we all have the potential to be wonderful and the potential to be terrible. The one person you have to live up to is the better part of yourself.”

Arthur had wrenched his hand away, his throat burning, and had excused himself before fleeing the room. He’d ignored her when she called his name. He’d returned to constructing his mental map of Tintagel Castle to distract himself from the thoughts churning inside him.

Now, Arthur found himself knocking upon her door after separating from Gwen and bathing, and having changed into a fresh set of clothes. He was still exhausted. Merewald looked as wrecked as he felt when she wrenched the door open and made to start giving out.

“Hey,” his aunt greeted tiredly, deflating at the sight of him and stepping aside without question. He hastened past her and Merewald bolted the door as soon as he crossed the threshold. She’d started bolting the door when Arthur had first started visiting her, after watching him shift in discomfort until he’d mustered the courage to ask her, his voice quiet and his frame tense as he stared at the unbolted door that someone could burst through at a given moment. “I heard you went down to the shore today; did you like it?”

“Mostly,” Arthur answered immediately, hesitating to sit until Merewald rolled her eyes and gestured with a rough hand for him to get on with it. He found it hard to break the old habits of servitude “I had...some difficulties...but I’m alright now, I think. I came to tell you that I’ll be learning to sail in the winter. Captain Morien said he’d teach me when he comes back.”

“Sailing is awful.” Merewald made a face. She settled down in the chair opposite him. “I threw up the first and last time I ever boarded a ship. I much prefer the air.”

“I’m not sure how; being in the air feels too much like falling.” Arthur fiddled with his ring, and avoided looking at Merewald for a long moment. “You...ah...you don’t seem too pleased to hear the news.”

“I’m not displeased. Actually, I’m glad you’ve found something to do with yourself in the coming months – we all need hobbies to look forward to and you don’t seem keen on training. Arthur, you must know it isn’t personal in the least. I just don’t understand the draw of sailing. I never understood it. Not even when Agravaine and Tristan couldn’t be separated from the water when we were children.” Merewald looked out the window over his shoulder, her expression confused and miserable and more than a fraction bitter. A moment passed before she snapped out of it and looked at him again. She gave him a warm smile. “Ygraine would be so proud to see you embracing your heritage: you come from a long line of sailors.”

“Was she a sailor as well?”

“No.” Merewald laughed and shook her head. “Deep water terrified Ygraine. She couldn’t even come within a foot of a large expanse without paling; a fact your father often delighted in. Uther loved to appear brave in front of her, hoping she’d notice him. He could be such a buffoon sometimes.”

“I don’t want to hear about him.”

“You don’t?”

“Uther Pendragon was a murderous hypocrite.”

“I know, but he wasn’t born a monster –”

“I don’t care!” Arthur rose from his chair fast enough to topple it over, his frame tight with blinding anger, his hands curling into fists. His healing hand flared with pain. His chest heaved with the force of his emotions. “That man slaughtered hundreds of innocent people for having magic and he’d used it himself. He would’ve murdered the man I love without a qualm. I can’t abide to hear about him!”

“Arthur –”

“I don’t care how warm and kind he was before I was born. I don’t care how loving he was. I don’t care that he was a buffoon at times or that people loved him so damned much. I don’t want to know!”

“You know,” Merewald answered sharply, scrutinising Arthur, “while your change in mood is more than refreshing, I don’t appreciate being shouted at. You can have your damned anger, Arthur, but bellowing into the void accomplishes nothing.”

Arthur drew in a deep breath with the intention of arguing, but it was apparent that his aunt wasn’t in the mood to be shouted at much longer. He released that breath before picking up the chair, his hands shaking in the wake of his anger, his jaw still clenched as he sat opposite her again. He and Merewald glared at each other.

“I appreciate your anger and I understand it. Honestly, I encourage it – but that doesn’t give you the right to start raving at me whenever I start talking about him. Has it ever occurred to you that I might want to talk about him? That talking might help me?” The muscle in her cheek twitched. “I spent more than two decades under an enchantment because Agravaine was grieving the same sister I lost. I couldn’t speak about things that happened before your birth. I couldn’t speak about your mother, about your father, or about you. I couldn’t speak about Tristan. I couldn’t grieve the death of those I loved. I couldn’t fight for them. Agravaine controlled all aspects of my day, from the speeches being written to the hours I spent training and even the choice of people with whom I spent nights fornicating. He kept me on a tight leash.” Her hands gripped the armrests of her chair. “But you don’t see me ranting and raving about Agravaine as soon as his name is mentioned.”

Arthur drained of colour as Merewald kept speaking, her frame as tight as his own had been a moment earlier, her eyes like molten steel.

“Grief twisted Agravaine. It twisted him until there was nothing left of the brother that I grew up with. Until there was nothing left of the man that once loved me. Don’t you dare lecture me on monsters.”

“You knew?”

“That he was controlling me?” Merewald gave a bitter laugh and nodded her agreement. “I knew from the start. I was aware of each second that passed under his control and I fought him each step of the way; I scrawled and bit and kicked and raged at his grip and the one thing that he never managed to get his accursed hands on was the line of succession. He never managed to scratch out your name.”

Arthur stared at her, his vision blurring, whispering, “You fought for me?”

“I never gave up on you for a second.” Merewald looked away, swallowing, and then looked at Arthur once more. Her eyes shone. “I never once believed that you were dead. I couldn’t. I couldn’t bear the thought that I’d lost the last good thing left to me.”

Several minutes trickled by, neither of them speaking, and then...

“What happened to him? What happened to Agravaine?”

“I bound his wrists and dragged him out of the castle.” Merewald looked away, the muscle in her cheek twitching again. It was her turn to drain of colour. “I dragged him down to the harbour and boarded a ship for the first time. I had the crew sail us both far out to sea and we chanced upon a shoal of panicking mackerel. We all knew what such a sight meant. It was the height of summer; the water was at its warmest and teeming with marine life. I sliced his thigh open and ensured he wouldn’t bleed to death before shoving him overboard. Agravaine was still struggling to keep his head above the surface when the first predator took a chunk. He died screaming.”

His aunt rose from her chair and Arthur did the same opposite her, taking an immediate step closer, croaking, “You could have told me that it wasn’t something you wanted to talk about. I wouldn’t have pushed you.”

“I have nothing to hide.” Merewald stared at him for a long moment. His stomach twisted in the face of a deadened stare that looked far too familiar for comfort. “Ignoring the past helps no one. Your father was a monster and so was Agravaine. So am I. We all have a monster inside us and it can be so, _so easy_ to forget that we have so much good inside us as well.” Merewald reached out and gripped his shoulder, her hand warm and fierce. “I never want you to forget the good inside you. Promise me that you’ll do your best to live up to the better part of yourself.”

“I promise.” His eyes drifted closed as Merewald stepped closer and pressed a kiss against his forehead. It made him wonder what it would’ve been like to receive one from his mother. Arthur excused himself and drew away, heading for the door, before pausing and looking over his shoulder, his face wet with tears now sliding. “Was Agravaine your demon?”

Merewald laughed.

“He was just the reprise.”


	36. Chapter Thirty-Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things to Note:
> 
> I'm not even joking about people rowing in circles without meaning to. I know someone like that. 
> 
> And a big thank you for everyone still reading, commenting, and leaving kudos. I appreciate it. I'm glad ye're still enjoying the fic.
> 
> As always, feel free to let me know what you think.

Winter came quickly, the weeks passing almost faster than Arthur could handle after his crowning ceremony, and his duties grew heavier. His initial sessions of physical training comprised of running across the grounds with chainmail on and increasing amounts of plate armour strapped to him – his heart almost exploded after a year of inactivity, but it was wonderful to feel his limbs burning, aching, and exercised to the point of exhaustion each time. It was wonderful to collapse on the grass and pant from exertion while Sir Percival and Sir Gwaine horsed around with each other nearby, the pair of them flushed and exuberant from running with him. He’d been uncomfortable with exercising around them at first. But his aunt managed to persuade him around to her point of view. Apparently, it was easier to keep motivated when training in groups and Arthur could now see why: the distances Arthur had to cover never seemed enormous when he had company; it also cheered him to hear the pair laughing and bantering, messing around as he and Merlin might have once upon a time.

Weirdly, it made him forget his heartache for a while.

His training also came to include mastering various weapons of war. Merewald trained him herself whenever she had time and also delegated the task to Sir Percival when she had more than enough duties to keep her occupied. She was delighted to learn he’d mastered the crossbow already, and was even more so when Arthur informed her that Merlin had trained him to use a dagger and instructed him in basic swordsmanship. His weapons training began there and spread outward as he grew more confident with each weapon he was introduced to.

It was exhausting.

It was agonising.

It was more wonderful than he could express.

He’d almost wept the first time he had to add a new notch to his belt to keep his trousers from falling down.

Arthur hated fighting, but he loved training; he loved the adrenaline that blazed through his veins like so much fire. He cherished the leap his heart gave whenever Merewald praised him for doing something with particular aplomb. Such an occasion wasn’t often. Merewald was an intense mentor, who poked and prodded at all the things he did wrong, and frustrated them both in the process. But she was the first to wear a beaming smile whenever Arthur did something unexpected during training, his mind as fast as lightning, his hands and feet moving almost as quick as the calculations whirring through his mind. Merewald was the first to squash him in a proud embrace and the first to ruffle his hair, laughing whenever Arthur protested and tried to squirm away, her rough knuckles coming to torment the top of his head without relent until the pair were in a struggling heap on the ground – weapons forgotten and discarded.

Ninianne often started laughing at the sight.

The young witch acted as his squire on the training field – he wasn’t yet comfortable with the idea of having a manservant to order around and having a girl help with his chainmail or his weapons wasn’t considered improper in Cornwall.

It wasn’t as though she were seeing him naked.

Arthur also knew Ninianne needed the company; there weren’t a lot of children her age to distract her in Tintagel Castle and it was nothing like the home she’d known. It had been a difficult adjustment for her. Ninianne clung to him in lieu of her brother, who’d been such a large influence in her life. He found himself letting her. Arthur never wanted to be the person that would turn her away, not when she was suffering, her eyes almost as miserable as his own whenever Arthur let himself think about all that he’d abandoned in Camelot. He wondered how often Ninianne brushed against someone that came with them from Camelot and hoped to see a glimpse of her brother, a glimpse of Merlin when he was happy, when that beautiful magic bloomed at his fingertips and he wore that smile that crinkled his eyes.

He understood that desire to get a glimpse of the past.

Arthur often wished that he could do the same. He wished that he could run a hand over some part of himself and be transported back to a moment spent with the man he loved. He wished he could revisit the moment Merlin pressed a kiss against his cheek in Ealdor, the moment Merlin first wrapped around him like a lover, the moment Merlin mumbled that he loved him. He wished he could go back to the moment he met Merlin in that corridor, the Crown Prince of Camelot and Mercia too handsome to describe – those stupid ears and those tendrils of raven hair an unspoken and unacknowledged temptation that would soon come to torment him. He wanted to go back to the endless moments where Merlin broke down laughing, good humour making his eyes water, his face flushing with delight.

Arthur missed those moments the most.

He missed the warm breaths ghosting across his naked and vulnerable skin. He missed the arms and magic that enveloped him tenderly, drawing him closer, encouraging him to open up about things that upset him. He missed the gentle press of a forehead against his own and the clutch of loving hands.

Sighing, Arthur shook his head and forced himself to dislodge his growing melancholy, crossing the bridge dividing Tintagel Castle from the lower town. A burst of determination quickened his pace. Arthur wasn’t going to return to that darkness. He wasn’t going to return to his bed and spend his waking moments in that familiar melancholic stupor, that dangerous lethargy, that endless chasm of despair. He wasn’t going to let that darkness and despair ruin his plans for the winter, his plans to learn how to sail under Captain Morien. He wasn’t going to let it ruin his plans to be a Crown Prince that his new people could be proud of in the future – that distant horizon that drew closer with each night that passed like water in a stream: slow and steady, and as determined as the sun rising each morning when it would be so much easier to slip into eternal slumber.

Arthur emulated the same minute changes that used to sweep over his former master and lover, his chin raising higher, his shoulders pulling back and squaring, his stride growing longer. His leather coat billowed in his wake. He strode down to the harbour, his face warm from the brisk walk and providing a pleasant shield against the chill in the air as he gazed up at the pale blue ceiling. Clouds were sparse. It wasn’t snowing; being so close to the shore meant the lingering heat deep down in the waves made for a milder winter.

Not that his once-broken bones saw much of a difference.

Gloves encased his hands in an attempt to ward off the chill in the air, but the pair weren’t helping much against the aches and pains plaguing him. Ansgar, however, had been kind enough to put together a heating balm for him when she’d noticed how stiff he’d become in the chilling air, how a pained grimace would twist his mouth whenever he walked or used his hands. Arthur had relished the effects of the balm almost as soon as he’d applied it to his skin that morning and Ansgar had assured him the effects would last for several hours. He’d murmured an explanation after the pair spent a stretch of their session meditating, and Ansgar had been a patient listener, allowing him to work through it in his own time. He’d appreciated the lack of pushing. He’d appreciated the muttered expletives that emerged when he was finished even more – not to mention her quiet assurance that King Bayard would get his comeuppance one day; that Fate would let nothing stop Arthur from claiming his rightful place as Once and Future King, not even a man swimming in the putrescence of his own corruption.

Tearing his attention from the sky, Arthur looked out across the harbour. His heart stopped beating when he found it barren. Not a single ship remained in sight. His stomach twisted in distress. Arthur resisted the urge to start fiddling with the ancestral ring now suspended from a leather cord around his neck and continued walking, striding down the length of the pier, and almost died of fright when Captain Morien poked his head up over the edge. The sea breeze snagged wisps of white hair. His heart pounding, Arthur reached the end of the pier and frowned when he saw the faering tied to the mooring. There was no sail. There wasn’t even a mast. Bitter disappointment curled hot in his stomach. Arthur looked at Captain Morien – who was descending a rope-ladder suspended from the pier, no longer looking at him and expecting him to follow, but Arthur had no intention of following until Captain Morien made things clear.

“I thought you’d teach me how to sail.”

“I will.”

“And that involves taking me out on a boat without a sail?”

“No,” Captain Morien answered gruffly, throwing an unimpressed look at Arthur from below the pier, the faering bobbing up and down beneath his feet. “It involves building your stamina – the sails never do all the work. Just imagine this scenario: I teach you all that I know about sailing, but I never touch rowing – what idiot can’t figure out how to use an oar, after all. You feel confident and go out on a boat on your own. What happens next? The wind dies and the sail falls flat. You and your boat are caught in a strong current below the surface. You drift farther and farther out to sea and the waves start to get rougher, rocking your little boat harder and harder until it capsizes. The waves start crashing. Knowing how to swim won’t help when you can’t tell which direction is up. You drown and the Queen has me executed for reckless endangerment after trusting me to keep you safe on the Great Sea of Meredor.” Captain Morien shook his head. “I’m not taking you out with a sail until I’m certain you can row as well as the others. I’ve known good men who’d get into a boat with the best of intentions and still end up rowing in circles over and over, unable to break the damned cycle. I’ll teach you the rest in increments. For now, get rowing, Your Highness.”

“But –”

“Just get in the boat.”

“You can’t tell me what to do –”

“Actually, you’ll find that I can.” An expression of amused disdain rippled across weathered features. “You took me on as your mentor; that put me in charge as soon as you hit the pier this afternoon.”

“Surely, a man can change his mind?”

“Have you?”

“I...” Arthur faltered immediately, and then took a moment to consider before speaking again. His answer escaped slow and measured as Arthur did his best to avoid making a fool of himself. He did his best to remain diplomatic while his stomach twisted with discomfort and his mind started to repeat the familiar refrain he’d done his best to ignore in recent months. “No. I still wish to learn. However, I don’t appreciate the tone you take with me. I never meant to disrespect your authority, but I won’t let you speak to me like I’m an idiot or like I’m a servant still. I am neither of those things. I know I haven’t been in Cornwall long, and that I’ve done nothing worth noting, but I still deserve some show of respect from you – as a fellow human being, if not as the Crown Prince of Cornwall.”

“Your Highness –”

“I’m not finished.” Arthur invoked a sharper tone now, his expression hardening into a mask of authority, one he’d spent several weeks cultivating in front of a mirror while no one was watching. A mask he wasn’t sure would work until Captain Morien fell silent at once. A spark of confidence straightened his back still further at the sight of that small triumph. “I arrived here expecting to learn how to sail and found you misled me the last time we spoke.”

“I did no such thing,” Captain Morien answered with some surprise. He raised a pair of hands in calm surrender. “I said I’d teach you. I never said I’d teach you to sail as soon as you arrived. That was never part of the bargain. What I said a minute ago still stands.”

“As you say,” Arthur allowed with a faint incline of his head. “I took you on as a mentor, and that does put you in command to a certain degree. However, I’d like to reserve the right to ask questions whenever I wish without you cutting across me. Do you consider that a fair compromise?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“On whether we’re going to capsize when you waste time with asking questions while I’m doing the best I can to keep us afloat.” Captain Morien lowered his hands and gave him a dead stare. “The ocean is a dangerous place – a moment of hesitation can be the difference between life and death.”

“I know,” answered Arthur, who clenched his jaw and started descending from the pier, his grip confident and his feet quick. The faering bobbed beneath him as Arthur turned to face Captain Morien. Anger and determination blazed through him. “Such a delicate balance is one I’m more than familiar with. I spent two decades and a half walking the line between tolerance and execution – so believe me when I tell you that I’m more than capable of discerning which moments are going to get me killed at this point.”

Captain Morien frowned and said nothing, his expression growing troubled as Arthur stepped past him and sat down on one of the available benches. His spine remained rigid and his shoulders remained tense as Captain Morien spent a moment just staring at him before moving to untie the faering from the thick leg of the pier, movements quick and easy, drawing the rope back inside the faering. Normally, ships were tied to the moorings atop the pier, but Arthur could understand the reasoning behind securing the faering to the leg: the faering was some distance below mooring level.

Captain Morien looked at him then.

“You’ll have to take those off.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The gloves you’re wearing,” Captain Morien answered with a huff of impatience and Arthur looked down at his hands at once. His face flamed at what he’d thought the captain meant as Captain Morien went into a deeper explanation. “Leather won’t do you much good at sea. It’ll turn rigid the moment it gets wet and you need ease of movement on the water, not to mention a good grip. You’d be better off without them.”

Reluctantly, Arthur peeled off his gloves and let them rest at the bottom of the faering, and then reached for an oar as the current carried them a small distance from the pier. He froze when Captain Morien snared his wrist and hauled his hand close.

“What is this?”

“Balm...”

“Wash it off. It’ll affect your grip.”

“I can’t.” Arthur pulled his hand free immediately, his face flaming deeper, shame pooling hot in his gut as a scoffing noise escaped Captain Morien. Flashes of memories flickered across his mind and Arthur turned his face away, squashing the flinch that attempted to jolt through him. His hands curled into fists. It took a moment to make them unclench and Arthur looked at the elder man evenly, doing his best to keep the shame from appearing on his face. He had no reason to feel ashamed: he wasn’t to blame for how King Bayard treated him over the years. Arthur just wished his mind would remember that whenever shame flooded him at knowing he’d just stood there and taken each punch. That he’d taken each kick and each press of a boot without fighting back. “I’ve suffered repeated breaks in the recent past and the cold makes those areas flare with pain. The balm helps.”

“Only you have the power to decide what you’re capable of doing...but you should be aware that you aren’t the first to suffer in this way, Your Highness.” Captain Morien looked at him just as evenly, his eyes as dark as pots of ink. His voice was quieter than a murmur, but rough with some emotion that Arthur couldn’t decipher. That he was almost afraid to decipher. Arthur looked down at his hands again and cursed them in silence. He cursed the man that damaged them in the first place. “Your uncle was a fine sailor and he broke his fair share of bones over the years. But we can turn this faering around right now; the choice is yours.”

Arthur swallowed thickly, his heart thumping, and did the one thing he was willing to do: he dunked his hands into frigid water, made quick work of washing the balm off and dried his hands with his tunic. His abdomen twitched at the touch of frostbitten water. He reached for the oar again and wasn’t stopped this time. Arthur looked from the oar in his hand to the second oar and then at the sides of the faering, where two small loops of rope were attached to each side at an equal distance from each other; a spark of inspiration ignited inside him and Arthur soon had both oars through the nearest loops.

Captain Morien watched in silence as Arthur worked out the basic mechanics of rowing, soon discovering that just having an oar in the water was enough to turn the faering, but Arthur was soon rowing along the coast. He found himself gazing up at Tintagel Castle in the growing distance. Tintagel Castle wasn’t Camelot and yet Arthur found himself admiring her, admiring her shape and her glow, the manner in which she stood sentinel over her dominion. He could come to love Tintagel Castle eventually, Arthur knew, though he also knew it would never be the same as Camelot. It would never inspire the same burning fervour deep in chest – deep in that place housing his spirit.

Arthur wondered whether his mother once felt the same about Tintagel Castle when she first relocated to Camelot. She must have. He couldn’t imagine someone never feeling such passion for their homeland. Just wondering about the ardour his mother might have felt for Cornwall and Tintagel Castle helped the guilt swelling inside him abate as Arthur continued rowing, his muscles working, his skin heating in no time at all. His clothes started sticking to his body, but Arthur knew better than to remove even a single layer; doing so would just result in catching a chill while his ancestral ring hung from his neck instead of adorning his forefinger as usual.

Rowing was exhausting. It taxed his frame as much as his training sessions. Arthur could feel muscles down the length of his back working, not to mention his arms and chest and abdomen and the rolling span of his shoulders – even the muscles in his thighs were affected. It would have made him groan had he not grown accustomed to exercising, to utilising each inch of himself during training; it had hardened him against the noises that would have escaped him before. It was hardening his frame as well: his arms were much thicker, harder, softened with less padding, and his calves were following suit. His backside and thighs were slower on the uptake. He was pleased with them even so. Honestly, Arthur found the hardest place to tighten and strengthen was his abdomen – a fact that infuriated him immensely, considering that was the part of his frame that he detested most.

Regular exercise made it easier to maintain his appetite – something that relieved those that knew and cared for him. His portions were still being controlled to some degree and yet it wasn’t enough to put him at risk of collapse.

Leon Leodegrance joined him for supper sometimes.

The first time Arthur asked Leon to join him had been a disaster; the other man had thought he’d meant to begin a courtship and had turned him down gently, admitting that he wasn’t interested in men that way, though he was flattered that Arthur would considered him.

“No,” Arthur had exclaimed immediately, startled and somewhat alarmed at the suggestion that he’d meant to court the librarian. His face had burned something fierce as he’d started babbling, emulating his adoptive sister for one humiliating moment after another. “No! I’m not...I’m not interested in that! Not with you! _Not_ that you’re not a good man or worthy or anything, because you _are_...but I...just want a friend. I just want to be friends with you. Not that I’d ever force you to be friends with me. Obviously, I believe in free will as much as the next man here. Actually, you know what? Never mind. Pretend you never saw me. Please.”

He’d attempted to turn on his heel and stride away, but ended up standing on the hem of his white cloak emblazoned with the red gryphon of Cornwall and almost strangling himself in the process. He’d have panicked were it not for the quick hands that darted forward to undo the clasp. The sudden freedom from the cloak had relieved him even as his face had flamed brighter, his humiliation growing, Arthur snatching his cloak up from the stone floor and folding it in his arms in one fumbling motion.

“No one can know about that!”

“Your secret is safe with me.”  Leon had smiled warmly, and Arthur had looked down at the stone floor, his arms tightening around the bundle pressed against his chest. “Cloaks are such a menace. I’ve never liked them much.”

“You don’t have to lie to make me feel better,” Arthur had snapped instantly, his embarrassment turning into something sharp and angry, his gaze snapping upwards and fastening upon the librarian.

“I’d never lie to make someone feel better,” Leon had answered immediately, his shoulders stiffening with offense taken. “Father raised me to believe a lie would do more harm than good in the end.”

“Not all people would agree with him.”

“I know, Your Highness.” A moment of silence had passed between them as Arthur took a deep breath and stamped down on his anger, irritated that he’d let it ruin the somewhat pleasant atmosphere that had developed between them. “But I hope you’ll believe me this time when I tell you that I wouldn’t lie to you. Honestly, I thought we were friends already; we talk all the time when you come into the library, Sire. Most of it isn’t even about books.”

“Oh.” Arthur had deflated somewhat and then surged with new life – with relief and delight that he’d made a new friend without noticing. Deorwynn had told him that making friends was easier than he’d thought and he hadn’t believed her, but he’d known then that he owed her an apology, and soon. “You could’ve said. Before. I mean...I wasn’t aware.”

“You weren’t? It was a little obvious...”

“I just thought you were being nice.” His face had started burning again and his arms had tightened around his folded cloak even more. He’d glanced around for the nearest escape even as he’d continued to say, awkwardly, “People around here are nicer than I’m used to. I just thought it was a thing. That people did. Here.” Leon had given him an odd look that had Arthur wanting to crawl beneath his bed and never come out as he’d started to babble again. His palms had broken out in a sweat. “I mean...it isn’t like people can be rude or something, given that I’m related to the Queen – not that I think people are being nice because of that. Gods. Make me shut up. Please.”

Leon had chuckled warmly, and Arthur had laughed awkwardly, wanting to jump out the nearest window even as his stomach did a pleased somersault. He’d been pleased because he’d laughed again – even though it was over something stupid. Something Merlin would have teased him over. It wasn’t often that Arthur had laughed despite rediscovering laughter; sometimes he’d still found it hard to laugh even when he was in a somewhat pleasant mood. He’d also been pleased that he’d made a friend somehow, though he hadn’t been certain what he’d done to manage it. But he’d had no intention of questioning it further as Leon went on to say, “Will I bring that text you wanted to read?”

“And a dictionary,” Arthur had answered eagerly, his enthusiasm for reading the familiar text he’d spotted Leon reading in recent weeks returning, “if you can. I can’t speak or read Greek. But I’d like to learn how to translate it. His Highness used to read that book to me in Camelot. I never knew what he was reading, and I realised I wanted to know when I saw you with it.”

The amused look Leon had given him had made Arthur blush anew, but he hadn’t let it get to him much as he and Leon arranged a date and time to dine together.

Arthur flinched back into the present when Captain Morien shouted at him from the opposite end of the faering, a storm brewing on his weathered face.

“You can’t drift off like that at sea!”

“Isn’t drifting off a common occurrence on the water?”

Captain Morien blinked at him in surprise and then started laughing, his shoulders shaking with it. Arthur was in the middle of congratulating himself when the elder man cuffed his head and went on to say, “I want none of that cheek. You’re here to learn – not make jokes.”

“You were the one laughing,” Arthur grumbled to himself as he kept rowing, ignoring the growing tremble in his arms. He’d keep going until he had no choice remaining, until his muscles gave out. He liked it most when he was that exhausted after exercising – it meant he’d be ravenous when he returned to his chambers. It meant he’d be able to eat his supper without feeling as though he were eating far too much for one man – a feat made easier after witnessing Leon gorge himself on food more than once and still manage to look trim whenever Arthur encountered him.

“That doesn’t mean I want to hear you cracking jokes when you’re meant to be concentrating, Your Highness. You need to concentrate – on the shift in the air; the feel of the water; the press of the waves against your oar; the shift of the waterline against the hull.”

Arthur paused in his rowing, the word mentioned sparking recognition. He’d come across that term during his reading. He glanced down at the waterline and understanding flickered through him. Filing the unspoken definition of the word hull away, Arthur continued rowing, a beaming smile blooming across his face.

He was learning.      


	37. Chapter Thirty-Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chunk of this is Arthur reflecting in his journal. Bear with him. 
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think.

_Ostara – 536 AD – approaching two years since I left you._

_I’ve developed a far greater respect for what you had to deal with since accepting the role of Crown Prince. How you found time to relax with and tease and fall in love with me is a mystery; I feel as though I’m drowning under these endless crushing duties and yet I must keep going. I must keep moving forward. I must keep learning, keep training, and keep dancing among nobles while charming the folk in the lower town. I’m terrible at the charming part – at least I think so. Merewald claims otherwise. I’m not certain whether I should believe her, but I suppose I must. She has age and experience on her side._

_Merewald is one of the greatest women I’ve ever met. Seeing her inspires me to keep doing what I can to keep the darkness at bay, Merlin. I’m not sure where I’d be without her and the others that care for me. One day, I want so much for you to meet her. I hope she likes you as much I know you’d like her._

_You know, Merewald adores your mother, but so do most people here. It reminds me so much of you. Just watching Lady Hunith charm people brings countless memories flooding to the surface – memories of watching you mingling, charming all the men and women in the vicinity, making them fall in love with you even as I fell in love with you._

_I’m still in love with you._

_Merewald claims absence makes the heart grow fonder, but Captain Morien claims that distance makes the head forget quicker and I know he isn’t wrong. I know continued distance will make memories fade away; that I’ll start to forget the exact shade of blue your eyes take. I’ll start to forget the shape of your mouth and the silken texture of your raven hair. I’ll start to forget the sound of your laugh. I’ll start to forget the countless things that make this heart start thumping with want and need and so much love that I could choke on it – love that I want to choke on. I don’t want to forget you. I don’t want to forget a single beautiful part of you. I never want to forget how you made me feel when you looked at me...when you touched me...when you held me like I mattered so much to you._

_I know the one cure to this impending loss is to come back to you and I will._

_I will._

_One day, I’ll come back to you and I’ll make the King regret the moment he ripped your beautiful magic away. I’ll make him regret the moment he tore us apart. I’ll make him regret whatever pains he might have caused since I abandoned you to his whims. I swear I’ll come back. One day, but not right now. I’m not ready, Merlin. I can’t face the King when memories still make these hands tremble. I can’t face him when shadows still fill me with so much tension that it hurts when I’m walking familiar corridors alone. I can’t face him when cold sweat still breaks out across my skin. I hope you can understand that I need time. I need time to work through the issues still plaguing me._

_I will come back to you. Just have faith in me...please._

_I do hope things are okay, Merlin – or as peaceful as circumstances allow. I’ve heard nothing of Camelot. I’ve heard no whisper of a rumour – not from the sailors or the merchants or the roaming bards and minstrels. Hearing nothing fills me with fear. Surely, some rumour should have reached Cornwall at this point? Are you even alive? Are you maimed? Are you imprisoned? Has some cone of silence descended upon Camelot? Is this the work of witchcraft? Has Councillor Ares placed an enchantment upon those who’d dare to speak of you to outsiders from beyond the border? Robyn has informed me that it took a monumental effort to break through the enchantment Councillor Ares placed upon my name when she managed to get close enough to Merewald – effort enough to make her collapse in the middle of the throne room._

_Robyn almost died in the process._

_I never even knew there was an enchantment in place! But it makes a painful amount of sense. How else could each of those nobles be surprised to know I’m alive whenever one visited Camelot? Surely, news of me should have spread over the years. I’ve found that I can introduce myself whenever I wish and so could the King; it can be assumed that he and I alone are immune to the enchantment. I can see why he’d insist upon using such an enchantment. It would have been obvious that Merewald was under some enchantment herself had her people known I was alive the whole time and saw that she made no effort to rescue me from the King._

_Just considering the likelihood of that notion has inflamed me. I’ve started visiting the temple down near the armoury, asking the Gods to watch over you while I’m healing. I’ve begged them to discourage your uncle from turning his rage upon you as he once did with me._

_I can’t bear to think of you at his mercy, bruised and battered and broken at his hands. I can’t bear to think of him threatening you as he once threatened me – with enslavement to the King of Deorham or forced prostitution to the King of Dyfed._

_That fiend made an offer, you know. He made an offer to the King for the chance to bed me and your uncle was tempted to accept. Your uncle was tempted to let him force me for a price. I’m not sure why he never accepted the offer. I’m not sure why he never let the King of Dyfed force me to his bed or his desk or whatever horrid surface that fiend could imagine me pinned against. I’m not sure why your uncle never relished in having that power over me. Maybe he knew you’d sooner start a war than let the King of Dyfed violate me or someone else like that. Your uncle must have known you’d have seen me struggling. I would’ve struggled until you noticed that fiend manhandling me away, would’ve struggled even more had he managed to get me alone. I’d have fought harder than I’ve ever fought before._

_You might never understand how grateful I am that you took me first...that someone else never took matters into their own hands. I have enough to heal from without adding that to the list._

_So thank you._

_Thank you for being kind and warm and protective of me when it would’ve been so much easier to cast me away, to have nothing to do with me while your uncle still ruled and let him hurt me whenever he wished. Thank you for loving me despite the name given to me. Thank you for making me feel wanted in a wholesome and respectful manner, though you could be such a damned tease at times. Thank you for being the man I fell in love with._

_One day, I hope to be the man you fell in love with again and more. I hope I can make you as proud as you have often made me. I remember beaming at you with that pride. I remember how it filled me up inside and started spreading, glowing from within me. I’d like to earn that prideful glow back from you. That would make me the happiest man alive. I know that was trite to say, but I can’t help feeling that way; I can’t help feeling that your approval is the one I need the most._

_Sometimes I dream that I’ve lost that approval. Sometimes I dream that I’m standing in your bedchamber, and you’re looking me with revulsion so powerful that I wake up shaking; weeping at how least like a dream it felt._

_Sometimes the dreams are better. Sometimes I dream that I’m in that clearing with you – the one where you touched me for the first time. I dream that your hands are on me like I wanted them to be then. I dream that I’m astride you and you’re gazing up at me with so much adoration that I can’t help moaning, choosing to fall slower and sink deeper, your hands gripping me like vices as I rise and fall on top of you. I dream that our sweat mingles and our breaths are ragged as you let me claim the hard length of you as rough and fast as I want._

_Would you like that?_

_Would you like to have me ride you?_

_You seemed to like having me astride you in the past and I can’t imagine such tastes have changed much unless you no longer love me as you did then._

_Sometimes I dream that I’m bent over your writing desk. I dream that your fingers are inside me and exploring, slick and eager, making me moan and shiver. I dream that you’re chuckling, amused at how...desperate I am for you. I dream that you tease me until I fall apart and start weeping, and then you slide deep. Sometimes I dream that I’m sprawling atop the same writing desk and you’re encouraging me to wrap my thighs around your narrow waist. You take me hard because you can. Because you know how much I love it when you lose control like that – like you’re a storm raging against me and I’m at your mercy, loving each devastating second that passes between us._

_Just the act of writing down these dreams floods me with humiliation and so much want and I don’t know whether I’d ever want you to read these entries in the future. I don’t know whether I could bear your reaction to these dreams after our separation. Would it make you think less of me? Knowing how often I dream of having you inside me? How often I dream of having you claim me again? Would it make you think less of me to know that I’m hardening even as I write this? That my other hand rests against the laces? That I’m tempted to stop writing in order to indulge in these illicit fantasies about you?_

_It took me until just a few weeks ago to realise I could do that. That I could undo these laces and wrap a hand around the length of me without fearing that someone would think I’m breaking the law with someone – with you or some desperate chambermaid or some lesser practitioner. I can indulge without the fear of someone bursting through the door and dragging me away, and that notion is strange and wonderful. I’ve indulged almost each evening since I made that realisation...and I think about you. I feel as though some perverse demon has awoken within me and driven me to indulge in pleasure. Is it supposed to feel like that? Is that what it feels like for you? Like you found something delicious and sinful and so wrong, but so right?_

Arthur set down the quill and rose from his chair, leaving the ink to dry, his frame thrumming with nervous excitement as he moved around the writing desk. He was nervous each time he indulged in ecstasy, but not for any reason that he could discern. It wasn’t forbidden. Countless men indulged in themselves without hesitation and he was almost sure some women did as well. Arthur wasn’t even being adventurous compared to some of the exploits he’d heard joked about in the tavern. It still felt as though he were doing something wrong; not enough to fill him with fear, but enough to give his activities a sharp edge that often made him bite his knuckles to keep from moaning too loud. His hands were shaking as Arthur undressed and a soft moan escaped him when the laces constricting his arousal eased away, his hands sliding the trousers down until he could step out of them. His tunic followed a moment later. Arthur opened his bedside locker and his toes curled in anticipation as he withdrew a phial of oil he’d received from the physician after he’d made a fumbling request so garbled that she’d started laughing, but none of that mattered now.

His frame trembled as Arthur crawled into bed and squirmed against the bedclothes until he found a comfortable position. The new scent of the laundered bedclothes reminded him of home and Arthur moaned softly, his fingers tightening around the phial of oil for a moment before setting it down upon the bedclothes. He turned his face and inhaled the familiar scent.

Arthur did the same as he did each evening that he’d spent indulging, his hands exploring, heedless of the lingering embarrassment that warmed his face as he ran his calluses over his own sensitive skin. His manhood throbbed as memories of his last night with Merlin flooded through his mind. He remembered it as though it were yesterday, as though he’d woken within the span of his arms just that morning, and Arthur bit his lip as goose bumps rose across his flesh and his nipples pebbled. That was when he started touching his nipples – which soon grew stiff and sore and swollen and still Arthur teased them. He abused them willingly, imagining Merlin abusing them with his mouth. Arthur started squirming; his nipples were one of the most sensitive parts of his body, and shared a deep connection with the hard length between his thighs. A familiar name escaped on a low whimper, and Arthur let his eyes fluttered closed as he imagined Merlin drawing away, and chuckling, and watching him turn into a writhing mess as fingers replaced that sinful mouth.

Pleasure sang through his veins.

He’d discovered that he could peak just from tormenting his nipples some weeks earlier, but that wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted something else. He wanted more. A breathless sigh escaped him as Arthur slid one hand down his abdomen while the other reached for the phial of oil. His calluses scraped across the soft and sensitive skin of his inner thighs just so and Arthur shivered as he imagined Merlin doing the same to him. He wondered whether Merlin would be rough or gentle with him now, whether their separation would encourage him to ravage or savour, and the thought of either earned another soft moan as his manhood twitched. Arthur wanted to be taken intensely, _so_ intensely, his frame thrumming with that hunger as he eased the stop from the phial and let oil coat his fingers.

Arthur tensed and then sighed and relaxed in quick succession as he wrapped a hand around himself. That warm slickness felt so good each time. His teeth sank into his lip again as Arthur started stroking, his grip loose and almost teasing, not wanting his pleasure to end too soon. He almost wished Merlin could see the sinful mess of a man he’d become and then felt a little relieved that he couldn’t. Just the notion of having his lover watching him made his pleasure sharper, deeper, exquisite and unbearable. His thighs tensed against the bedclothes. His hips flexed. That familiar name escaped him again as his grip tightened a fraction and then another, his slick hand rising and falling, thumb teasing the head on each upstroke. He started moaning, his pleasure coiling around his spine over and over, his muscles tensing, his frame bowing, his skin flushing, sweat breaking out. He moaned around that familiar name again and again until something snapped within him and Arthur was arching, his manhood throbbing, his quick hand milking his length of each damned drop until he could do nothing but sprawl upon the bedclothes and pant.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed before he managed to rise from the bed and fetch a damp cloth. His muscles quivered as he cleaned his hand and then ran the cloth over his abdomen. A small smile curled his mouth as he remembered Merlin licking such fluid from his face and how he’d laughed before Merlin stripped him and carried him to bed. It was still strange to think of the slender man lifting him as though he weighed nothing, that inherent magic supporting the muscles in his frame. Arthur bit his lip at the memory, and then winced: his lip was sensitive and aching after biting into it so often during his private session. He brushed his fingertips across it and his smile broadened slowly, remembering how much his lip had ached after he’d dropped to his knees before Merlin and drew him into his mouth.

His manhood attempted to twitch in interest.

Chuckling, Arthur abandoned the cloth. He slipped his tunic back on over his head and let it drape across him loosely, his smile still evident as he return to his writing desk with a pleasant sigh. He felt wrung out and cheerful as he dipped his quill back into the inkwell and started writing again.

 

_I’m wearing a white tunic right now and nothing else but for an ancestral ring. I know how much you like seeing me dressed in white. I know how much you like to see sunlight or firelight casting me aglow. I’m feeling rather aglow, honestly. I’ve just indulged and I’ve become pliant and cheerful – it happens each time I indulge in thoughts of you and memories of us together. You’d think your absence would affect me the most then. You’d be wrong, Merlin: it just floods me with more hope and optimism. I know we’ll be together again. I know I’ll see a smile light up your face again. I can feel that knowledge deep down inside me – as though some force to be reckoned with has taken residence within and set me aflame. Could it be our shared destiny? Has something happened to make it flare up again between us? I’m not sure. All I know is that we will meet again. I’ll make sure of it as soon as I can._

_But never doubt that I miss you._

_I miss you so much._

_I feel as though I can’t breathe without you sometimes. However, I do know that half of that is because of the anxiety, the tightness that makes breathing so difficult when I’m stressed. I get stressed often. But I refuse to let it stop me from doing what I need to – at least as much as I can. Sometimes I fail. I’m allowed to fail now and then. I’m human and failure is part of that. How else can we learn? How else can we become the people we’re meant to be? Success can require failure at times and I’m starting to come to terms with that. Slowly, gradually, but coming to terms with it nonetheless._

_I’ve come to terms with so much since I started seeing Ansgar; her methods are gentle and persuasive and I appreciate them so much. She believes in me. She believes in us and I do too. I believe we can unite Albion together, one day, when we’ve both grown enough and believe in ourselves enough – with or without magic to help us. But I know you believed in us long before I started wanting, hoping, or believing, and I hope your faith in us continues until we meet again and even longer. I want us to stand together, Merlin. I want us to be united as the realms will be united. I want us to set an example for those we’ll serve and protect one day, to set an example for people that have lost all hope at some dreadful point in their lives and show them that being damaged doesn’t mean their lives aren’t worthwhile. That being damaged isn’t the end of the world. That love and care and support from the right people can make such a monumental difference. I want to be for other people what you and Merewald have been for me: an inspiration._

_You inspire me._

_You inspired me long before I had to leave Camelot. You inspired me to be so much braver than I might otherwise have been. You inspired me to stand tall when others wanted to shove me down and I’m so grateful for that. You have no idea how much that means to me. You have no idea how much I wish I could do something to return the favour, though I can’t imagine what you might desire and that I could bestow._

_Would the world do?_

_I would give you the world and so much more. You have this heart and mind and soul already; I can think of nothing else to give you but the world or this hand in marriage._

_I think about that sometimes._

_I think about our wedding, about standing in some flowering grove with you and making our vows before a small gathering of close friends and family, and kissing you while our loved ones cheer. Just thinking of it now has me smiling like an idiot. Could you imagine it? I’d wear white robes because you love it so much when I wear white and you’d wear...red because I love seeing you in that colour. Perhaps we could coordinate with some gold embroidery, and some red and white flowers in the garlands we’d wear on our heads._

_Naturally, I’d check yours for spiders first. I know arachnids discomfit you now, after the lengths you went to in order to retrieve the mortaeus flower; I can’t imagine I’d still be comfortable around spiders had our positions been reversed._

_But I digress._

_Needless to say, you’d look so much more than beautiful and I’d never be able to stop staring, smiling like an idiot because you’d be looking right back at me. Looking at me like I’m the most important thing you’ve ever seen. I want that with you._

_One day, Merlin. One day._

Arthur set down the quill once more and rose from his chair. He took a few moments to change into a nightshirt and put the phial of oil away, and crawled beneath the bedclothes. He wriggled around until he found a comfortable position and hummed in contentment. Drawing the bedclothes closer, Arthur imagined Merlin snuggling up with him after a night of slow and tender lovemaking, his mouth curling in a warm smile.

The following afternoon found Arthur training, torso bare to the spring air, sweat gleaming as he circled around Merewald and she did the same to him in return. Each step was careful and timed to perfection as Arthur never once looked away, his frame loose despite the anticipation building in his stomach. His hand tightened around the hilt of his blade. He and Merewald continued circling, his aunt smirking, amused but determined to wipe the floor with him again – determined to make him do better; to think faster and move quicker, to fight harder and sharper, to hone himself into even more of a weapon under her close surveillance.

His jaw clenched.

Arthur forced himself to wait despite the urge to take a swipe at her, refusing to make the first move. Usually, he did make the first move and Merewald scolded him each time he did so: to make the first move was to admit a weakness. It was to admit that he was impatient or anxious or fearful or angry, and each of them could be the last mistake he ever made in a real fight. Merewald insisted that Arthur attempt to refrain from doing so for as long as possible and Arthur did that now. He continued to ignore the urge until a hint of approval glowed within her, her frame easing, and Arthur pressed his immediate advantage with an explosion of movement.

Surprise rippled across familiar features an instant before her blade came up as quick as lightning, their swords clashing, the pair becoming immediate storms of opposing force as Merewald huffed a laugh before shoving him away, powerful muscles rippling beneath a jade tunic soaked with sweat. She followed the hard shove with an immediate swipe of dangerous steel and Arthur wrenched himself away, the lethal tip missing his throat and the approval shone once more. He brought his blade sweeping up to defend against another blow and another, snarling, his veins burning with determination as he and Merewald exchanged a rapid series of attacks that rang through the air. Steel vibrated in his grasp with each harsh blow, vibrating up through his arm and across his shoulder, but Arthur ignored the compulsion to drop the blade to get some relief. Dropping the blade would be a lethal mistake in a real fight and he refused to make the same mistake now against his mentor. He fought back harder, his muscles contracting and releasing, his feet quick and his blade quicker as Arthur drove his aunt back a step and another, forcing her to give up more and more ground as he pushed himself forward.

Approval shone brighter.

A quick and clever manoeuvre trapped her blade down near her leg.

Arthur almost grinned.

The urge to grin disappeared when Merewald lashed out with a curled fist hard enough to send him reeling, stumbling, and made his jaw throb with pain. Harsh memories flickered for an instant. Arthur snarled and dislodged them with a calculated swing of his blade that Merewald met with another gleam of approval. Another explosion of blows were exchanged until Arthur swung with too much force and missed Merewald as she jumped out of the way, and then he went down with a grunt of pain as she hooked a boot around his ankle and yanked.

“You’re doing so much better,” Merewald announced proudly, approval in her tone as the tip of her sword pressed under his jaw.

“I still wasn’t good enough.”

“Hush.” Merewald sheathed her blade in the earth beside his head and Arthur turned over, squinting up at his aunt as his chest heaved from exertion. She offered him her hand. Grimacing, Arthur grasped it and let Merewald pull him to his feet with one heave of her muscled arm. She gave him a fierce stare. “I meant it. Arthur, you never even dropped your weapon when I hit you this time. Overcoming such instinctive fear isn’t easy; I’m proud of you.”

“But I haven’t overcome it. I still had flashes –”

“Overcoming doesn’t mean not remembering,” Merewald chided gently, holding her hand out for the towel that Ninianne sent over with a controlled burst of magic. She thanked her, smiling, expression warm. Ninianne sent another over for Arthur, who nodded his appreciation. He gripped it in his hand as Merewald returned her attention to him and continued speaking, her voice quiet and firm despite the heaving of her chest. “Overcoming that fear means working through it. It means not backing down when all of your instincts tell you otherwise. You could’ve backed down when I hit you. You could’ve let go of that damned sword and backed away, retreating from the pain that instincts under duress claim will follow, but you didn’t. You came back at me with more determination and strength and courage and I am _so proud of you_.”

Arthur ran the towel over his face to hide the embarrassed grin threatening to make an appearance and then looked away, his chest swelling with pride and satisfaction and pleasure at having earned so much approval.

“You know,” Merewald said slowly, her careful words summoning his attention immediately, “Wessex are holding a tournament this summer.”

“No.”

“Arthur, you can’t spend your life being too anxious to cross the border.” She threw an arm around his shoulders and drew him closer, giving him an intense look. “You don’t need to worry; I’m not expecting you to win.”

“I feel so encouraged right now; thank you.”

“Hush.” She flicked his nose hard enough to earn a muttered complaint and smiled warmly, the expression washing across a face flushed and bright from exertion. “I _am_ expecting, however, that you do your best – which isn’t the same thing. You need to take the chance to observe and participate in a controlled environment. Wessex is such a place.”

“Can’t we hold a tournament?”

“Certainly,” Merewald answered immediately, “but that would involve remaining within the border, and I want you comfortable with leaving, so we’re not going to. You’ll just have to grin and bear it.”

“But Bayard might send someone to represent Camelot and Mercia!”

“He might.” Merewald released him and tossed her braid over her shoulder, running her towel over her face for a moment. She peeked at him over the white fabric before lowering it a fraction more. “He might even send someone who’ll recognise you in an instant. But that doesn’t mean the person he’ll send will want you dead. Your lover went to numerous tournaments when you were working for him and he might still be competing now, but you’ll never know unless you go. Honestly, I thought you’d jump at the prospect of seeing him again – however slim that chance is.”

Arthur looked away, grumbling, knowing he’d lost the argument as soon as Merewald mentioned Merlin. Just the prospect of seeing Merlin again had his chest tightening with nervous excitement. He looked askance at Ninianne and saw a painful amount of hope directed at him. Sighing, Arthur looked back at his aunt before saying, “I’m going, but I’m taking Ninianne with me as squire and an armed escort.”

“Naturally,” Merewald answered easily, a proud grin making an immediate appearance. She reached out and attempted to ruffle his hair, but Arthur ducked and danced away, amusement rippling across his own features. “We’ll finish up for today, and you can choose your escort closer to the time. And don’t forget the banquet this evening!”

“I’ll remember; the buck I brought down is being served tonight.”

“You needn’t sound so smug about it. That buck could’ve been mine.”

“I can’t help being quicker with a crossbow than you.”

Merewald did her best to trip him and Arthur dodged each attempt with such a lack of grace that she started laughing, the sound bright and warm in the spring sunshine. He laughed with her and continued to run his towel over his heaving frame. He moved over to the bench where Ninianne was sitting, and smiled warmly, running a hand over loose copper locks. Pride burst through him when the young witch never even twitched at the touch. Arthur knew she’d been practicing recently, making an extra effort to control when and how the visions came to her, though he wasn’t certain what made her decide to put so much effort into it. He knew she missed her brother as much as he did. Maybe she’d seen something from the past that she hadn’t wanted to see. Maybe she’d seen Arthur doing his best to keep himself distracted from his absence and wanted to do the same. Maybe she wanted to make Merlin proud in her own way, with her own progress and training; Arthur knew she’d started spending time with the Cornish mages and had started pestering the archers with questions.

Looking down at her, Arthur noticed the painful hope had ebbed away, and he stepped closer, crouching down in front of the young witch that had become a sister to him since he’d met her.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m just tired.” Ninianne gave him a strained smile and shrugged as she scuffed the grass with her shoes. Faint shadows marred the skin beneath her eyes. Concern flickered through him and chased his almost carefree mood out of existence. Ninianne looked down at her knees as her eyes started watering, doing her best to avoid looking at Arthur, whose gentle thumb stroked across one shadow, his concern doubling as she went on to say, “I had a bad dream last night.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”

“I didn’t want you distracted when you were supposed to be training,” Ninianne mumbled quietly, so quietly Arthur almost missed the words spoken. “You’re dealing with enough without listening to me talk about bad dreams.”

“Hey,” Arthur said gently, his fingertips dropping to press beneath her chin and encouraging her to look at him. “Merlin had enough to deal with without listening to me talk about mine as well and he still did it.” Ninianne stared at him with such surprise that Arthur chuckled softly, his expression softening even further. “You didn’t know that? I used to be up half the night and Merlin would sit with me until I felt better; you do that when you care about someone. I care about you.”

Arthur fell hard on his backside when Ninianne lunged off the bench and he hugged her closer, his hand resting against the back of her head. She remained in his arms for so long that he wondered whether she’d fallen asleep until something wet hit his skin. His concern returning, and growing, Arthur stroked a hand over her hair until she started whispering, her arms like bands of desperate iron around him.

“I dreamt about Merlin.”

“And it was a bad dream?”

“The worst I’ve ever had.”

Ninianne started shaking, and Arthur tightened his arms around her, offering no soothing words yet. He could offer nothing until he knew what she’d dreamt. He chose instead to say gently, “Tell me about it.”

And she did.


	38. Chapter Thirty-Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I listened to Plumb's "Don't Deserve You" for the first time today, and though it is considered a religious song, that never occurred to me while I was listening to it. All I heard was Intense Merthur Agony, so I 100% recommend the song for that reason. 
> 
> Note: Some heavy themes are mentioned in this chapter.
> 
> As always, feel free to let me know what you think.

Unease knotted his stomach as Arthur dressed for the banquet. Words confessed to him amid tears bounced around his head repeatedly; the thought alone of Merlin shattering a mirror with his fist and using a shard to tear a jagged line down his forearm on purpose was more than he could bear. Over and over, Arthur muttered to himself what he’d croaked to Ninianne earlier: it was just a dream. It wasn’t real. It was no more real than his own nightmares about that dark shade of his lover pressing his slender fingers into the open wounds across his back. The man Arthur knew would never have done such a thing, not in a million years. A stressed mind could conjure the most devastating images during sleep without difficulty, but that didn’t mean it was real.

It couldn’t be real.

Arthur swallowed thickly, and repositioned his coronet again...and again...and again...and again before throwing the damned thing across the royal chamber in an explosion of temper, his hand left trembling in its wake. He pinched the bridge of his nose and focused on his breathing, doing his best to remember his meditative sessions with Ansgar; he let each slow breath fill him up and held it before letting it go even slower, his chest expanding and deflating with each one. His heartbeat slowed in response. Grumbling about his temper, Arthur crossed the chamber and retrieved the coronet. He searched it for damage and found none. A low pulse of relief rippled through him. Arthur returned to the mirror and stared at his reflection. He was trimmer now, his frame stronger and healthier than ever, but the lines of stress tugging at his mouth and eyes made him seem older than he should have looked. His experiences in Camelot had aged him somewhat...but his concern for Merlin was also taking its toll.

His hands tightened around the coronet in his grasp.

He looked down at the stone floor, and then out across the balcony, out into the vast abundance of nature hidden in shadow. Surely, the Gods would be listening even if he wasn’t down in the temple? Arthur dropped to his knees and let his head bow, squeezing his eyes shut before whispering, begging them once more to take care of Merlin while he wasn’t able. He begged the Gods frequently, the whispered words often soft and aching, but Arthur was almost desperate this time. His heart hammered in his chest as he whispered his prayer. A few minutes passed before Arthur rose to his feet and looked at his reflection once more as he continued to focus on his breathing, his hands rising to settle the coronet upon his brow again. He fixed his hair and forced the smile he’d been practicing since he’d accepted his duties to make an appearance.

His stress lines eased immediately, and Arthur appeared younger, brighter, and almost as cheerful as he’d been when he and Merlin were relaxing together in Camelot. It had taken some time to perfect the mask until it was seamless. Sighing, Arthur fetched his cloak from the dining table and swirled it around his shoulders in one quick sweep before fastening the clasp with quick and efficient fingers.

He fixed the drape of the cloak and left.

Arthur ignored the tension that developed within his frame as he strode through corridor after corridor, descending through the castle. His stride remained calm and confident despite the cold sweat that broke out across the small of his back. He acknowledged the respectful bows from the guardswomen stationed outside the banquet hall and swept through the doorway, unnerved as usual when attention snapped in his direction as though he’d summoned their gazes with his mere presence. His cloak billowed in his wake as Arthur kept walking, inclining his head in respectful acknowledgement as noblemen and women bowed and curtsied to him on his way, and soon found himself standing with the small circle of men and women he trusted with his life and more.

Gwen greeted him with a kiss to his cheek and a smile that Arthur returned immediately, the expression warm and genuine for the first time since Ninianne had spoken of her dream. Arthur pressed a kiss to her cheek in return and smiled at Lancelot over her shoulder, his smile welcoming; the kind man had become close to kin since he’d started courting Gwen the previous autumn. He offered his hand in greeting, as he did with each of the warriors standing before him: his adoptive brother; Sir Pellinore and Sir Kay; Sir Percival and Sir Gwaine. Dame Robyn raised her chin with an overwhelming amount of personal pride as she grasped his forearm in return. She’d been knighted recently, after diving after a young child that toddled off the cliff while their parents were arguing, and her magic was the one thing that spared them both from a gruesome end. Arthur could think of no other woman in his immediate acquaintance more deserving of the honour knighthood would bestow. He’d told her as much when she’d risen from her knees after swearing her oath of allegiance to the Queen of Cornwall and swearing her sword to the endless well of nameless people that would need defending from insurgency, from bandits and dangerous creatures.

“I’ve heard Sir Gwaine intends to take you under his wing, Dame Robyn.” Arthur directed the same welcoming smile he’d granted to Lancelot at her, his heart hammering under the immediate but respectful scrutiny, from both Dame Robyn and her brother, but kept his chin raised in a careful show of confidence. “I’m sure you’ll be a wonderful addition to the team. You’ve proven yourself more times than I can count already, and I believe you should have been knighted as soon as you arrived in Cornwall. Unfortunately, those decisions aren’t mine to make. I’m glad that oversight has been corrected at last – that cloak belongs on your shoulders. I know you’ll make Cornwall proud.”

“Your confidence in me is an honour, Your Highness.” She raised her chin higher, her grip tightening, and Arthur could almost see the urge to make a sarcastic remark rippling across her features. A smirk of amusement danced across his mouth. “I’ll do the best I can to prove it won’t be misplaced in the future.”

“I expect nothing less from someone so capable and trustworthy,” Arthur answered easily, his smirk fading in favour of genuine appreciation once more. Dame Robyn wasn’t as fond of him as Sir Pellinore, but she was coming around gradually, Arthur knew, and he hoped she would come to like him as a person as much as she respected his actions in the past. Arthur released her hand and started turning, his hand sweeping the edge of his white cloak away, the action practiced and subtle and easy, saying, “I hope you’ll forgive me for parting, but I must start mingling. Enjoy your evening, all of you.”

Mingling wasn’t something that came to him easily, not like riding a horse or using a crossbow, or even his growing skill with sailing, but it was something his position as Crown Prince of Cornwall required whenever a banquet took place. He’d learned to keep himself standing tall and confident when he wanted nothing more than to crawl under the table and hide himself away, allow himself to recharge after so much socialisation. He’d learned to smile when he’d wanted to slump in his chair with exhaustion. Arthur let himself wonder what Merlin would think of him now; whether his lover would be proud of the figure he’d somehow become in his absence. However, such dignified things weren’t the first he’d learned since accepting his duty, though he considered them the most important when it came to mingling with the various nobles in the banquet hall. He’d also learned how to dance around flirtations from a number of noblemen and women without causing undue offence. That he’d had to learn such a thing had come as a large surprise. He’d never expected to be admired and desired at court.

Naturally, part of him wondered what might have sparked such intense and surprising attraction: whether it grew in the nobles his own age and younger because of his connection to the Queen and whether his hair and skin and eyes reminded the nobles older than him of his mother, who’d been considered an incredible beauty.

Just the thought of being desired for the sparse likeness he shared with his mother made his stomach churn with rising nausea.

Swallowing, Arthur forced himself to think of something else as he neared one such elder noble and greeted him respectfully, his face a mask of pleasant humour and mild intrigue. He ignored the weighted gaze that grazed his mouth and throat as he spoke and accepted the compliment offered to him with humility, his frame loose and comfortable despite wishing Merlin was there with him to mark his territory, to claim his arm where all the nobles could see them interacting with each other, their affection blatant. Arthur offered no flirtations veiled behind compliments of his own – just the idea of doing so made his skin crawl. Instead he discussed some fragment of news he’d heard at court and engaged the nobleman in conversation as trivial as parchment.

Eventually, Arthur excused himself and moved on to engage a gaggle of young noblewomen that started blushing at the sight of him. It was flattering, but strange to see young and somewhat pleasing women blushing, and even giggling, when Arthur was more than accustomed to seeing them walk away, walking in the opposition direction as fast as possible to avoid encountering him. It was uncomfortable after several years of being sneered at and jeered at and mocked until he couldn’t even look at his own reflection without hating the sight of it. It made his stomach twist. Arthur ignored that uncomfortable twisting, and enquired after their day, listening with increasing interest to their enthusiastic reports about their lessons: one of them was training to be an archer, and another intended to be a mage. One young woman informed him that she’d spent the whole afternoon sculpting, though she didn’t have much talent.

“I appreciate your modesty,” answered Arthur, recognising the same lack of confidence he often saw in himself and bestowing a kind smile upon her, “but I’m sure you’re far more skilled than you think. We’re our own worst critics.”

The disbelieving and startled smile that bloomed across her face was so blinding that realisation dawned upon him in an instant: he’d just made her day. It was clear she’d never heard an encouraging word about her sculpting before. Arthur cleared his throat and looked away, torn between feeling uncomfortable at having that blinding smile directed at him and pleasure at being the one to make someone else smile like that. A moment passed before he could look at her again. He spent another few moments talking with the group before pardoning himself and moving on.

Arthur mingled until Merewald swept through the doorway, her chainmail gleaming bright in the torchlight around the banquet hall. She never wore a gown to banquets or festivals – unlike the various noblewomen who’d trained as archers or mages. She was never seen without a weapon. Her favoured weapon was strapped across her back and gleaming, the twin edges curved and lethal. Merewald favoured an axe where Arthur favoured a sword. It would take one tug to disengage the axe from the clever harness holding the weapon in place. Arthur made his way toward her, his frame even more calm and confident as attention shifted from him to the Queen and the admiration from all directions doubled in strength.

“You look wonderful this evening, Your Majesty.”

“I was aiming for dangerous.”

“Same thing,” Arthur answered easily, a beaming smile brightening his face when Merewald chuckled and swatted his arm. He offered the same arm a moment later and grinned when she accepted the offer without complaint. Her hand sat warm around his elbow. Arthur escorted his aunt to the high table first and then to her chair, feeling his chest swell with satisfaction when Merewald directed an approving glance at him. Merewald relinquished his elbow as nobles drifted to their seats and waited respectfully, and she cast a warm smile upon them all.

“Thank you all for coming,” said Her Majesty, “to celebrate Ostara with us. I’m aware that some of you aren’t a fan of travelling, especially across the sky, so I appreciate the effort taken to join us this evening. I’d like to offer particular gratitude to Arthur, who provided us with supper tonight.” Merewald picked up her goblet and held it out to the maidservant holding the ewer, and murmured her gratitude as all in the banquet hall had their goblets filled in the same moment. Arthur gripped his own goblet tightly, concerned about fumbling with it in public view, but his grip remained calm and even – unlike the first few occasions where he’d attended a banquet in Tintagel Castle. He ducked his head in severe embarrassment when Merewald went on to say, “Arthur, beloved nephew, I couldn’t be more proud of how far you’ve come since you arrived in Cornwall. I couldn’t be more proud of the man you are now and the King I know you’ll become one day, and so I have something for you – something I hope you’ll come to appreciate as much as you’ve come to appreciate the sea.”

Surprise flickered through him at her words and again as the doors leading into the banquet hall opened to reveal a lone groom and a winged beast black enough to be mistaken for a shadow, but for a pair of golden eyes that glowed with quiet intelligence and intrigue.

Arthur almost dropped his goblet.

He knew what it meant to be given a hippogriff in Cornwall.

It meant Merewald saw in him what she saw in all the men and women selected for knighthood: honour and integrity; compassion and mercy; perseverance and bravery; a thirst for justice and immense loyalty. His vision started blurring. Arthur set down his goblet before he could spill a drop when he felt the start of a tremor as Merewald raised her goblet to him and continued speaking, her voice warm and clear as she uttered a traditional blessing, “May your day be filled with blessings like the sun that lights the sky, and may you always have the courage to spread your wings and fly.”

Arthur blinked his vision clear and swallowed thickly, casting his gaze around the banquet hall as the nobles and serving staff alike raised their goblets as one and toasted him. He turned to look at Merewald and bowed deeply, honoured and anxious simultaneously, murmuring, “Though I feel undeserving, Your Majesty, I’m honoured that you think so much of me. I hope such praise and admiration won’t be misplaced in the future.”

“I _know_ it won’t be.” Merewald crushed him in a strong embrace as soon as Arthur straightened and he blinked his vision clear for the second time. She released him less than a moment later, her eyes shining, a grin dancing across her mouth. Merewald touched his arm. “Go on! Have a look at her!”

Arthur left the head table as fast as he could without making himself appear too eager, and strode past the endless lines of people beaming at him. He had eyes for the hippogriff only, his breath hitching as she stared at him. Her head twitched in one direction and then the other, her golden eyes eerie and glowing, so beautiful. Arthur stopped a short distance from her and raised his hand slowly, not wanting to startle her, and let her come forward of her own volition. Her eyes remained fastened upon him as her beak pressed against his palm and then started pushing, poking further, scenting along his wrist and then under his cloak. Arthur choked on a chuckle when her warm breath found his hip after nosing under his clothes.

“Silly,” Arthur muttered and she started nosing higher, her smooth beak soon finding his neck. Her strong chest expanded as she took a large breath. The hippogriff let out a soft trill. He couldn’t help grinning, murmuring, “Aren’t you beautiful?”

The hippogriff trilled again.

Arthur pressed a gentle kiss against her beak and looked at the groom still standing by, who held the reins in a firm grip. He searched his face for a moment before asking, “Has she a name yet? Or is that for me to decide?”

“The latter, Your Highness.” The groom bowed his head respectfully, his voice almost lower than a murmur. “Choosing a name for your mount is one of the most important steps in the bonding process.”

Arthur looked at the stunning hippogriff again and smiled thoughtfully, humming, one hand coming to stroke over raven feathers that felt like silk against his sensitive skin. His other hand caressed her beak. His chest panged with loss as he remembered Hengroen and Llamrei. Her glowing eyes fastened upon his face instantly, and he’d swear she knew what he was feeling, that she knew who and what he missed so much. Arthur pressed their brows together, murmuring, “Hecate.”

His smile broadened when Hecate trilled again and flexed the muscles keeping her powerful wings folded tight against her body, and Arthur loved her in an instant. He loved the strength of her and the quiet enthusiasm in the movements she made – as though Hecate wanted to be with him. Arthur pressed another kiss against her beak and looked at her seriously, promising, “We’ll continue this tomorrow.”

Arthur relinquished his grip and stepped away, nodding to the groom. He watched as Hecate turned without much prompting, her rump shifting with each step taken. Her tail swished. She was such a magnificent creature: a harmonious blend of the magical and the mundane. A minute or two passed before Arthur turned away, shoulders squaring, a surge of happiness glowing within him as he returned to the high table where Merewald had seated herself already, a knowing smile curling her mouth.

“You like her.”

“As you say,” Arthur answered easily, seating himself beside her, “but you know the air and I aren’t friends. We’re more like reluctant acquaintances. I’m not sure I’ll be able to do your gift justice.”

“You will.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Firstly, you’re a Pendragon. Secondly, you’re also a de Bois.” Merewald chuckled quietly, shrugging, and took a sip of water. As far as Arthur knew, his aunt never drank wine or ale. “We’re a stubborn and determined bunch. I’ll admit that the trait can be a major flaw, but it can also be one of the greatest strengths you’ll ever have. And I know your arrival in Cornwall wasn’t the first time you took to the air; Hunith told me you’ve ridden the back of a dragon more than once.” Merewald looked askance at him. Her expression softened and she leaned closer, her voice quietening, and her expression softening with earnestness. She rested a gentle hand upon his forearm. “I know you’re afraid of falling, and I’m beginning to think I know why, but I also know you’re afraid of the shadows lining the corridors and yet you still walk them. You ignore the shadows. You’re afraid of failing, but you keeping rising up to push yourself harder until failing isn’t even an option. You’re soaring, Arthur, and you don’t even know it. I wish you could see how far you’ve risen.”

“Your Majesty,” Arthur answered quietly, reaching for his wine and taking a long swallow before reiterating the point he’d made earlier. “I can’t express how grateful I am that you think so well of me. I’ll do the best I can.”

“I know.” Merewald squeezed his arm gently, and then gave his wine a disdainful glance. “I wish you wouldn’t drink that stuff in public. Intoxication is dangerous.”

“I’m not having that much.” Arthur looked at his aunt curiously, questioning, but set down the goblet without hesitation. Her body, which had started tensing, eased as soon as he did so. “I don’t see what difference it makes to you. You aren’t the one drinking, after all.”

“I’ll explain someday, but not right now,” Merewald muttered with a shake of her head. She leaned away, smiling when the serving staff from the kitchens entered the banquet hall bearing platters of steaming meat and vegetables and bread and dishes of fresh fruit. She avoided looking at Arthur, who frowned at her, growing more and more concerned as the avoidance continued. “That looks delicious!”

“I thought you had nothing to hide.”

“I don’t.” Merewald threw an irritated glance at him. She skewered a large slice of steaming venison and pulled it from the pile just set down in front of her. Steaming vegetables soon joined it on her plate. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t pick and choose when to tell you things about me. I’d rather have supper right now.”

“But you want me to stop drinking while you do?”

“Obviously, I’m not going to force you.” Merewald pushed vegetables around her plate and then set her utensils down. She rubbed her temple. She winced as though a headache were growing, reached for her goblet and downed the contents almost in one go before holding it out for more. Her maidservant filled her goblet at once. “Arthur, I don’t want to be like Bayard and take your choices away, but I’m concerned about you leaving yourself vulnerable in public. One goblet of wine could be enough to skewer your perception – depending on whether you’ve eaten or your metabolism or the strength of the beverage. I just want you to be safe.”

“I’m safer here than I’ve ever been.” Arthur leaned in closer and touched her arm gently, as his aunt had done to him earlier, his concern doubling when Merewald made no effort to look in his direction for even a moment. Her finger tapped against the table repeatedly, a rapid beat that spoke of her nerves. She stared out across the banquet hall as other people started eating, her stare a fraction glazed. Arthur squeezed her arm until his aunt looked at him at last and it almost seemed to ground her, the tapping of her finger easing; he let his voice quieten. “Your Majesty, if I can’t trust the people I’m meant to govern one day, then who am I to trust? You can’t encourage me to relax here and then turn around and tell me not to. You need to make up your mind.”

“I don’t mean to be confusing or misleading,” Merewald answered slowly, and wearily, tearing her gaze away, her muscled frame tensing anew. Her hand curled into a fist beside her plate. Her knuckles whitened. “I don’t mean to be a hypocrite. But all I can think about is your safety, Arthur. Just the thought of someone hurting you – for whatever reason and through whatever means – floods me with so much rage that sometimes I can’t think straight. When I saw...when I saw the scars on your back...you don’t know how hard it was to refrain from going on a rampage. I would’ve torn him apart in an instant. I wanted to hear Bayard screaming, to hear him begging, and that desire alone convinced me to remain here when I wanted nothing more than to take flight and head straight to Camelot. You needed me here more than you needed me avenging the pain inflicted upon you. The better side of that scale grew heavier that day, Arthur, but that won’t be the case for all people – not all the time. Not when someone is vulnerable in front of them. I’m not stopping you from drinking,” she said as she looked again at Arthur, “but I’m asking you to be careful. Can you do that for me? Please?”

“Okay,” Arthur replied gently, leaning in to press a kiss against her cheek. He smiled in relief when the tension started to ease away, and watched as Merewald drew in a calming breath. Her answering smile wasn’t quite as bright as before he’d started questioning her, but Arthur wasn’t the most adept at cheering up another human being, not unless he were dealing with his former master, who was far easier and yet twice as difficult to handle.

Arthur wasn’t even able to cheer Ninianne up earlier. She’d just cried harder and clung to him until exhaustion invaded her, making her slump against Arthur, still sprawled across him. He’d cradled her close until he was certain she wouldn’t wake and then eased out from under her. He’d finished dressing and sheathed his blade before scooping Ninianne up into his arms. He’d carried her back to the castle and to her mother, who’d been horrified when Arthur explained the situation to her, and was the first to brush a tender hand across her brow when he deposited Ninianne upon the bed.

“I don’t understand.” Lady Hunith had looked at Arthur once the pair had drawn away, leaving the young witch in exhausted peace. Her expression had been despairing. “Do you think she had a vision?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur had answered quietly, giving the closed door concealing Ninianne from view a concerned glance. He knew Lady Hunith had heard the quiver in his voice when she’d touched his arm. He hadn’t been able to look at her for a long moment. “I hope not. Has she had prophetic dreams in the past?”

“Never, but not all seers are born seeing, Arthur. You know that.”

“Ninianne is a seer already; she just doesn’t have prophetic sight. Hindsight is an even rarer power, milady, and we should be grateful for what she has. We can’t assume she has the gift of foresight as well until we know more.”

“How are we even supposed to learn more?! Merlin isn’t here!”

“I know,” Arthur had whispered as he’d reached for her, drawing her closer, his arm warm and secure around Lady Hunith. She’d buried her face against his shoulder for a long and painful moment before withdrawing, putting some distance between them as Arthur went on to say, “I know he isn’t. I think about his absence more often than I can say, and I know I’m not alone in this great suffering, but we need to keep calm. We can’t just assume the worst has happened or will happen in the near future. We need to remain strong, and to uplift each other, not tear our faith in the future apart because of some bad dream. It mightn’t even be a portent! It could have been just a dream!”

He’d meant the words he’d said to her.

It was just harder to hold on to them when Arthur wasn’t speaking to someone who needed him to remain strong, who needed him to keep the fear at bay, even for a small while.

Swallowing, Arthur shook his head to dislodge the memory, and started filling his plate to distract himself from the quagmire his head often became during extended periods of silence. He focused on dining, and wining, and then asked for water as soon as he drained his first goblet. He cast his gaze around the banquet hall once or twice and took note of various occurrences: Knights laughing with each other; noblemen gossiping; noblewomen exclaiming in shock now and then after listening to some anecdote.

Arthur spotted Deorwynn at the far side of the banquet hall with ease. The surprising friend he’d made in Camelot worked now for an elder lady, who needed companionship after her wife of four decades passed away, and Deorwynn was talking with her, her face animated as she told some tale or another. He’d seen them together more than once since he’d started fighting against his melancholy, and it was wonderful to see Deorwynn making a difference to someone suffering from such intense loneliness.

But Arthur couldn’t help the sharp pang of grief and regret that shot through his chest at the sight. Seeing Deorwynn talking with the woman just served to remind him of Merlin babbling, talking his ear off at all times of day, never shutting up unless he was too upset to talk – too upset to even smile for long. Not that his missing Merlin was comparable in the least. Merlin wasn’t dead. He was also more than aware that he’d known Merlin for a wet day, compared to the four decades Lady Eglantine spent loving her partner, living with her, sharing countless precious moments with the woman. His stomach twisted at the awareness. Arthur looked down at the rest of his supper, his heart aching, wondering how almost two years without Merlin could feel like a lifetime spent with something missing from within his chest – as though someone had reached in and tore some crucial piece of him away, as though he’d been robbed of his soul. He tried to imagine how much worse such loss would have felt had he and Merlin been given a chance to share a long life together before the man he loved was ripped away, and Arthur found he’d stopped breathing, his frame tightening, his throat constricting.

His vision started spotting.

Arthur forced himself to suck in one breath and then another, each one taken burning, ripping through him. It made the ache in his chest flare brighter. He set his utensils down and requested permission to leave the banquet early, his aunt looking at him in surprise and growing concern. But Merewald said nothing, and waved him away, her gaze resting upon him as Arthur rose from the chair with as much grace as he could muster. He vacated the banquet hall without quickening, his shoulders remaining square even as that broken place inside him started curling, grieving, shaking with how much he missed Merlin.

How much he missed the other half of him.

His white cloak billowed in his wake as Arthur strode through another endless corridor, his hands starting to quiver, his boots slapping against the pale stone stretching on and on ahead of him. Arthur walked right out of the castle and across the bridge spanning the deep plunge into the Great Sea of Meredor, her questionable depth nothing more than a shadow, but for the faint break of waves against the cliffs below. Arthur walked through the lower town and descended through the lands that would be his one day, passing the harbour, where ships lined the pier once more.

The merchant vessels lining the pier now had been pulled ashore for the long and harsh winter, their hulls rolling across logs set out before them and numerous strong men pulling, straining against the thick ropes in their grip.

Arthur never even glanced at the ships as he passed by, his muscles driving him on for an hour, his strength never giving out until he reached the vast stretch of sand embracing the sea.

The powerful scent of brine comforted him immediately, sinking deep into his chest as Arthur dragged in one breath after another, his knees pressing hard into wet sand that soaked into his trousers and squelched with each faint movement he made as he tried to make his ankles more comfortable. A frostbitten wave surged forward and swept past Arthur, caressing his shins and calves. It swept the end of his cloak away, and then pulled it back while receding, almost seeming to wrap the sodden thing around him.

Arthur chuckled weakly, his fingers curling around it and drawing it even closer, and thought about the man he loved. He thought about the magic robbed from him. He thought about Ansgar, who’d gripped his shoulder that morning, saying, “The sudden absence of his power changes nothing, Your Highness. Merlin and Emrys are the same being, and have been since before the first version of him chose to give up eternity, since before he chose to be remade with that ancient chief instead of waiting, waiting through countless centuries for you to return to him. He tied your souls together when he made that choice and his endless power soaked into the fabric of the earth. The Crystal Cave was created in that moment.”

He’d looked up at Ansgar. Her mention of such immense sacrifice had stricken him with both euphoria and agony, his vision blurring, and he’d almost shattered when gentle understanding rippled across wizened features.

“His power won’t be gone forever,” Ansgar had said quietly, her tone consoling, her hand squeezing his shoulder as he’d torn his gaze away, looking out across the vast expanse stretching out from the cliffs. “Such power, though it was but a fraction of what flowed through that ancient being, must be given freely; it won’t abide the use of force. You must trust in Fate – she will take matters back into her own hands as soon as she can and then you’ll be reunited. She couldn’t bear to see two halves separated for long.”

Looking out across the dark waves now, Arthur wrapped his hands around that trust in Fate and gripped tightly, refusing to let go. He couldn’t relinquish the hope that Merlin would return to him in one piece. That he’d be safe. He refused to believe otherwise.


	39. Chapter Thirty-Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay on this chapter; I've been super stressed over the last few weeks. Most of my friends are American and are POC, Jewish or are members of the LGBT+ community. So, I've been keeping a close eye on the US situation.
> 
> This chapter became a struggle to write as a result. But it's done now!
> 
> As always, feel free to let me know what you think.
> 
> Warning: This chapter contains heavy themes that might make some readers uncomfortable.

Still thinking of his lover the next day, Arthur strapped his sword to his belt and donned a leather coat lined with fur, a warm smile curling his mouth as he recalled the exquisite coat he’d worn in Camelot. He ran his hands over the smooth material and imagined Merlin doing so instead. He imagined himself cupping slender hips and pulling him closer, callused thumbs grazing against skin hidden beneath a handsome tunic. He imagined his lover smiling, the expression warm and happy, and Arthur sealed that image inside his aching heart. The warmth of that image eased the ache somewhat. Blinking his sudden blurring vision clear, Arthur straightened and vacated the royal chamber, his stride long and purposeful. He headed down to the paddock housing the hippogriffs and beamed when Hecate recognised him immediately, perking up at the sight of him.

Hecate came up to the wooden fence as Arthur came near, her eyes glowing brighter, almost mesmerising in the afternoon sunshine. Arthur greeted her, his voice soft and welcoming, his hands gentle as he stroked over her feathers and her smooth beak. She was stunning; a creature capable of making even the most stoic warrior or mage soften with appreciation. Hecate bumped her head against his and he started chuckling, the sound bubbling out of him. Arthur pressed an amused kiss against her beak and continued stroking, pleased when those golden eyes drifted closed. Several minutes passed in this manner, the pair bonding, Hecate growing more accustomed to his touch and the scent of him pressing close. He pressed his brow against hers and sighed contentedly, soaking in the warmth of her; it was almost like having a heated blanket pressed against his face.

Eventually, Arthur pulled away, considering his new mount as Hecate considered him in return. Her head twitched to the side. The beaming smile on his face faded to something softer. He looked around and spotted the cabin nearby, where he might find a groom or two to annoy. Arthur paused when that thought crossed his mind and then pushed it away; he spent a moment reminding himself that it wasn’t bothersome to make an enquiry, to ask for guidance when he knew nothing about caring for such a creature. His back straightening and his shoulders squaring, Arthur pressed another kiss against the smooth beak before marching over to the cabin and opening the door, stepping inside with a suddenness that made the chair tilting back on its hind legs topple to the floor with the groom in tow, the startled woman exclaiming, “Your Highness!”

Arthur hastened forward immediately, his hand thrusting out in offer, but the groom scrambled to her feet instead and ran a hand over her hair, her face flaming with embarrassment. He remained quiet in the face of that embarrassment and made a point of looking away, allowing the groom a moment to pull herself together, remembering his own bouts of awkwardness and humiliation with ease.

“I was wondering,” Arthur began a moment or so later, returning his attention to the groom when he felt he’d given sufficient time for a recovery, “whether I could have a moment of your time?”

“Certainly,” said the groom enthusiastically, her frame inflating with a tangible sense of confidence and Arthur knew then that hippogriffs must have been one of her greatest passions. He couldn’t help smiling, her enthusiasm infecting him. “Is there something you want to know in particular, Your Highness? Or are we talking about general knowledge here? I know you haven’t owned a hippogriff before.”

“I have some experience with caring for horses...so I’m not concerned about that part.” Arthur looked out the window, and watched as Hecate crossed the paddock to join Orpheus and Eurydice – the latter having been entrusted to Sir Gwaine when he was first knighted some years earlier. “But I’m not sure how to treat feathers.”

Arthur spent the next hour or so learning, questioning the groom on how to care for Hecate and squirreling the information away, storing it inside his head for later use. He was brimming with satisfaction and nervous excitement when he returned to the castle after taking a moment to press a farewell kiss against a smooth beak and run his hands over soft feathers once more. He’d promised that he’d return on the morrow and he would. He couldn’t wait to return to Hecate the next afternoon and start implementing what he’d learned. Still brimming, Arthur found himself outside a familiar door and knocking, a delighted smile on his face when Merewald gave him leave to enter, her voice clear and authoritative.

His aunt raised her head when Arthur burst through the door and then smiled gently, her quill pausing, hovering over the parchment spread out in front of her.

“Oh. You’re working.” Arthur faltered in his stride. “I can go –”

“That won’t be necessary,” Merewald interjected kindly, warm amusement shining in her eyes. “Technically, one could argue that I’m working all the time – such is the life of a monarch. Your distracting me won’t change that.”

“Okay,” breathed Arthur, his disappointment ebbing as a wave of relief washed through him instead. He made his way across the chamber as Merewald continued writing and settled in the chair facing her, the one often used whenever Merewald gave a private reprimand to serving staff in the household or those serving the crown through the guardhouse. Sometimes a private word was more effective than a public reprimand from the Captain of the Guard. Arthur smiled at her, admiring the calm confidence in each movement she made as she wrote and fiddling with his ancestral ring, before blurting, “I think I’m going to do it.”

“Do what?”

“You know what.”

“I do?”

Merewald glanced at Arthur, her brow furrowing, before realisation dawned on her face. She set her quill aside at once and straightened in her chair, gazing across the writing desk at him with no small amount of pride and excitement. Arthur ducked his head and smiled even brighter, his face warming; he was somewhat embarrassed that even unspoken praise still had such a powerful effect upon him.

Approval wasn’t something he should require.

He knew that much.

But he still...craved it. He craved a kind and encouraging word from those he cared about with an almost humiliating fervour, and the thought of failing to secure such warm praise made his throat constrict a fraction.

“I’m so pleased to hear that!”

“I’m not certain about it.” Arthur looked out at the sea and did his best to focus on his breathing, easing his throat back open. He looked at Merewald again and then down at his ring, which he still fiddled with. His brow furrowed with contemplation. “Honestly, I’m still a bit nervous about the whole thing. Very, actually, and I’m not even confident I’ll be able to remain in the air for long. I spent most of the flight from Camelot hiding from the view, but I did look up at one point...for a while. It was beautiful and it...it made me think of him.”

“Your lover?”

Arthur nodded slowly, murmuring, “I think he found being in the air liberating, you know, from the pressures of his position and from the pressures of wanting something he wasn’t allowed to have. I know that I was a temptation. That I made his position more difficult for him.”

“I need you to listen to me now.” Merewald gave him a fierce stare when Arthur glanced up at her. Her hands curled into fists atop the writing desk. “That wasn’t and never will be your fault. The one making things difficult was Bayard. You are blameless.”

“But I should have done –”

“Nothing,” Merewald snapped immediately, her gaze blazing, “because you did nothing wrong. You can’t control who desires you or who loves you or who writes the laws that govern you. You were a child when those cruel and unjust laws were written and you were still a boy, practically, when you became a manservant to the Prince of Camelot and Mercia. Blaming yourself for something like this won’t help you recover, Arthur, and you deserve to recover from what Bayard put you through and more.” Merewald let out a harsh breath and then dragged in another, lunging out of her chair, avoiding his startled stare as she stormed across the room to pour herself a goblet of water. She gulped it down and then poured another, returning to her chair, her hands wrapped tight around the goblet and ewer. She set them down without an ounce of hesitation. “I’m sorry, but I get parched when stressed or upset. Not sure why.”

“You don’t need to apologise.” Arthur watched his aunt carefully, his bafflement fading in favour of growing concern and no small amount of unease. A quiet moment passed and then another, Arthur selecting his words with as much care as he could manage while his heart thumped in his chest. “I’m not sure what I did to upset you.”

“You’ve done nothing,” Merewald answered quietly, almost gently, her expression softening. Her skin drained of that colourful anger, leaving her almost ashen. She swallowed another mouthful of water and then set her goblet down on the writing desk. Her finger tapped against the desktop. “I never meant to snap at you. But it kills me to hear you speaking like that. You claim you should have done something, but what could you do? You weren’t in control of your lover, Arthur. You didn’t make him want you. You didn’t make him love you. His thoughts and feelings and actions are outside of your control. You’re a victim of circumstance and so was your lover, and the one to blame is Bayard. Bayard put the pair of you into an impossible position. You did nothing, but exist and there should be no crime in that.”

Arthur offered no answer, and instead looked down at his ancestral ring, watching the afternoon sunshine gleaming along its surface as he continued fiddling with it. He still felt guilty, for having teased his lover, though the immense weight of that guilt had lessened somewhat since his sessions with Ansgar first began. It would keep lessening, he knew, but some part of him couldn’t let go of it completely, couldn’t let go of the belief that Merlin would have been spared his fate had Arthur remained distant and kept his gaze averted instead of lingering, and watching, letting himself admire pale skin and raven hair, desiring Merlin so much that he dreamed of lovemaking, of pressing against and gripping a strong frame with nervous and desperate hands. Instead of letting himself be admired and desired in return. He should have resigned from his position as manservant before he and Merlin grew too attached to each other. He would never have crossed the border, having never heard Martin Fletcher petitioning, and Merlin would never have had to come after him.

Merlin would never have lost his magic.

He would never have been slapped hard enough to bleed.

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and rose from his chair, abrupt and shaking, that familiar guilt and grief and rage threatening to crush him. He made it four feet before turning right back around and sitting down again. Focusing on his breathing, Arthur counted time until his heartbeat eased and the tension in his frame ebbed away, his limbs turning loose and pliant where he sat. His soul ached with the need to run his hands over sharp and exquisite cheeks and whisper an apology, for not being able to stop the King, for not being able to reach him during the fight for his freedom. Arthur ran a hand over his face and sighed heavily, wondering how his emotions managed to gain control of him each time something like this happened. Controlling his emotions remained one of his main reasons for seeing Ansgar, for meditating, for focusing on his breathing, and yet those emotions still plagued him.

The molten stone flowing beneath the earth inside him never cooled – never enough to stop moving, to become hard and cold and somewhat ugly, and never enough to give life to new serenity, or make something somewhat stable of him.

“You’re getting better at that.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

“It never does – at least not for me.” Merewald offered a strained smile when Arthur glanced at her, his tired hand falling into his lap. “But that doesn’t mean you aren’t. Don’t ever let your head convince you that those sessions aren’t working, not for a single moment. A single grain of doubt is more than enough to undermine the progress you’ve made since you started seeing a healer and I know that from experience. I was seeing a healer for quite a while before Agravaine turned traitor, but I’d rather not speak of him right now, so how about we talk some more about that hippogriff of yours. I suppose you went down to visit her in the paddock?”

“And I went to the cabin.” Arthur started perking up a bit at the mention of Hecate and the time he’d spent bonding with her. His face warmed. “I asked a lot of questions.”

“Nothing wrong with that.” Merewald shrugged and relaxed in her chair, her colour returning, leaving her looking more alive than she had earlier. She picked her quill back up and dipped the sharp nib into the inkwell. A soft chuckle escaped her as she went back to writing, her gaze focused upon the parchment in front of her; Arthur found the sound of her quill scratching across parchment soothing. “Tristan was much the same when he was a child. He had Captain Morien pestered whenever he was docked. The poor man couldn’t get a moment alone until Mama went down to fetch the little terror in the evening, and he’d let himself be pulled away, but he never stopped admiring the sea. Honestly, Tristan loved the sea more than he loved us and he loved us a lot.” Merewald glanced at him across the writing desk and paused in her writing, her expression softening. Her eyes shined with so much love. “Tristan would have loved you so much. He would have remained in Camelot as King, Arthur, had he won that fight against your father, and you’d have grown up knowing how much you matter. How proud we are of you. You don’t know how much I wish he’d won.”

A moment of silence passed between them and then Arthur shifted in his chair, his forearms bracing against his thighs and his hands dangling, asking, “Did Tristan ever have children?”

“Never,” his aunt answered with a quiet shake of her head. Her gaze returned to the parchment and she continued writing, her frame somewhat tense now, but her expression even. Arthur watched her, curious and more than a fraction concerned at her unspoken reaction to the tangent their conversation had taken. “Your uncle wasn’t interested in fornicating, nor romance. Papa thought it would fade eventually, once Tristan met the right person...but it never did. Honestly, the whole prospect of bedding and wedding someone made Tristan uncomfortable and he was often complaining, complaining about this person or that person throwing themselves at him again. No one seemed to grasp the fact that he just wasn’t interested. I couldn’t understand why; it seemed a simple matter to me. ”

Arthur nodded slowly, frowning, and offered his immediate agreement. It was a simple matter to him as well.

Some small part of him couldn’t help but think such an absence of attraction would have made his years as a manservant so much easier, never desiring to wed or bed his former master, who had been such an enormous temptation and still was now, even though Arthur was no longer serving under him. Not that Arthur could imagine living without that inferno blazing between them now. He couldn’t imagine not wanting to spend the rest of his life with Merlin or not wanting to spend each night with the warm weight of slender and strong arms wrapped around him and his head tucked up under a familiar chin. He couldn’t imagine never feeling those gentle and callused fingers carding through his hair. Arthur smiled as his scalp tingled in remembered pleasure and he started fiddling with his ancestral ring, catching his bottom lip between his teeth as he wondered whether Merlin loved caressing his scalp as much as Arthur loved to have his scalp caressed. He wondered whether Merlin loved holding him as much as Arthur loved to be held warmly, snug and secure against him and smiling, feeling more than just content with his lot in life as he and Merlin exchanged soft kisses and tender caresses.  

Shaking his head to dislodge that line of thinking, Arthur focused on his aunt again before asking, “And what about Agravaine? Did _he_ ever have children?”

“Agravaine couldn’t have seduced another human being,” Merewald answered in a scoffing manner, still writing away, her frame tightening even further, “even if he’d lain naked in their bed. He wasn’t charming, not like our brother, but slick with oil. He unnerved the young nobles around him and the elders considered him a strange duck. But he was our strange duck.”

“Your Majesty,” Arthur said quietly, his use of her formal title catching her attention immediately, her grey eyes fastening upon him as her quill paused. A sharp edge underscored her stare. “Do you want me to leave?”

“I’m capable of ordering you away, you know, and I wouldn’t hesitate to do so. You’ll know when I want you to leave.” Merewald continued writing, and then set down the quill at last. She ran a critical eye over the script and then nodded in approval before setting the parchment aside. Her gaze fastened upon him all over again. Merewald pointed her finger at him from the other side of the writing desk and Arthur felt like a young boy, just for the briefest moment. He found himself wondering whether his mother would have pointed at him like that when scolding, but he’d never know, and an ache flared in his chest at the inalienable fact. “Don’t think for a moment that I don’t know where these questions are going, Arthur. I’m not a fool.”

“I never thought you were.”

“Good.” Merewald huffed and looked away, her jaw clenching. A muscle in her cheek twitched for an instant before she drew in a slow breath and held it before releasing the breath she’d taken in one long stream. His aunt filled her goblet with water and took a long swallow, her face paling, returning to the dreadful pallor from earlier. Her voice softened to hide the quiver that started developing as she continued speaking, saying, “The reason you have no cousins...is because I lost them.”

His heart aching anew, but for his aunt now, Arthur straightened in his chair at once and couldn’t help but whisper, “Them?”

“Twins.” Her finger started tapping, the sound loud and harsh in the wake of her admission. Merewald avoided looking at him. “I lost Morrigan during delivery,” Merewald continued quietly, her finger still tapping, “and lost Dylan less than a week later. His heart was weak or so the Druids tell me. But I’m not sure I believe them.”

“Why,” Arthur asked in bewilderment. He stared at Merewald. “Why on earth wouldn’t you believe them? What justifiable reason could the Druids have for concealing the truth from you about your own child?”

“I believe the healers wanted to spare me from knowing that actions I refused to take resulted in his death.” Merewald looked at him now, her mouth twisted with pain. Her eyes glittered with unshed tears. Her finger continued tapping against the writing desk. Her voice broke even as a confession started pouring out in a torrent. “I was young and unstable and I wasn’t good for his wellbeing. Dylan was vulnerable and tiny, _so tiny_ , compared to his elder sister, but I couldn’t stand the sight of him. I couldn’t bear to hold him. He’d start wailing at night and I couldn’t stand the sound of him needing me. Arthur, newborns need touch and affection to survive and I never gave him the latter. I gave the former when forced. His dependence upon touch and affection wasn’t something I knew then. It wasn’t something I could have grasped when I was still struggling with memories of their father, memories of just turning fourteen and being offered a goblet of wine. Memories of being so drunk that I told Derek how to find me without getting caught before a pair of maidservants came to escort me away, memories of finding him handsome and charming when he was nothing but a ravenous wolf among sheep!”

Arthur breathed her name in horrified realisation and rose from his chair, circling the writing desk in less than an instant. He crushed his aunt in a tight embrace. She sat unmoving, staring at something he couldn’t see. Someone he couldn’t see. Someone he couldn’t have seen without wanting to tear him limb from limb. Arthur knew nothing about this sort of agony, but Arthur would return the strength she often loaned him whenever he was suffering. His hand smoothed over her hair. One moment of silence passed and then another, and then Merewald started shifting, dislodging him and reaching for her goblet to gulp down the last of her water. She poured another and then downed that as well. A strained grumble of discomfort escaped Merewald then and she rose from her chair immediately, sweeping past Arthur and disappearing into the garderobe.

Arthur stared out the window, feigning a sense of distance and privacy, though he could hear each muffled sound that carried through the door. He watched the glimmer of sunlight shift across the waves.

Pale and shaking, Merewald emerged from the garderobe a few minutes later and Arthur fastened his attention upon her immediately, and darted forward when she reached for him. He sank to the stone floor with her, holding her, his hand returning to smooth across dark hair. Arthur said nothing, knowing no words could soothe her, but rocked gently, knowing the gentle motion would provide some measure of comfort. He knew that much from experience. Her frame continued trembling, but Merewald never shed a single tear. Her arms were like steel around Arthur, their strength almost bruising, but he didn’t mind much. He pressed a kiss against the top of her head and then another. Arthur hummed softly, and quietly, until Merewald ceased trembling, her frame slumped with exhaustion.

Carefully, Arthur helped his aunt to her feet and then helped her settle in one of the soft chairs near the barren fireplace. He ran a gentle hand across her brow, smoothing back the few tendrils that came loose when she slumped in his embrace. Merewald focused upon him at once and it prompted him to murmur, “Is there something I can do? What do you need?”

“Water,” his aunt rasped immediately, and then she cleared her throat sharply, shaking her head. Arthur was quick to obey, darting across the chamber to fill her goblet with water from the ewer, and returning as quickly as possible without spilling a drop. “Thank you.”

Arthur waved her gratitude away, pressing the goblet into her waiting hand before Merewald could utter much more. He watched her drain the contents and then filled the goblet from the ewer he’d carried over, his grip tight and secure. His aunt gestured for him to take a seat. Arthur hastened to obey, pulling over a chair, settling near enough to fill her goblet whenever necessary. Though a large part of him itched to watch her carefully, Arthur chose to look away, knowing her need for a moment to gather herself was more important than his need to reassure himself that Merewald was...well...not okay, but managing, given the immense weight of her admission.

Eventually, Merewald cleared her throat and summoned his attention at once. She looked at Arthur, her expression weary, murmuring, “You must have some questions.”

“You don’t have to answer them.”

“I know,” Merewald acknowledged quietly, her hand tightening around her goblet of water. She took a sip. “That doesn’t mean I won’t. I meant it when I said I have nothing to hide. What happened to me isn’t a secret: it helped shape the realm you are coming to know now, Arthur, but I have asked those who stood witness to that difficult time to respect me and my privacy, and not to divulge particulars without seeking consent from me. Such a personal and traumatic experience is mine to share when I choose. Some of the younger generations have yet to learn and yet I’m not against them learning the truth when someone starts asking around. Knowledge and compassion and understanding are crucial when it comes to appreciating the realm as it is now and to seeing where the realm could yet improve in the future. Ignorance helps no one.”

Arthur looked down at the ewer, and stared at the shimmer of water within for a moment before asking, “What happened to Derek? Was he executed?”

“Not officially, but he was killed the night before I was meant to wed him.” Her words summoned his attention at once. Merewald was staring into the barren fireplace now, her brow furrowing, her expression exhausted and relieved and bitter all at once. Her hand trembled as it gripped her goblet. “Papa found him still in bed with me the morning after, one of the guards in tow, and I’d never seen him look so ashamed of me. He ordered the guard to leave and slammed the door shut before telling me that I was a disgrace. He told me that I’d brought dishonour upon the family, and then he looked at the man who took advantage of me while I was intoxicated and ordered him to start courting me in public view. We were to wed before the end of the week.”

Bile surged up through his throat and Arthur swallowed harshly, swallowed the urge to vomit and swallowed the urge to reach for her, discerning that Merewald wasn’t interested in being touched from the tension rebuilding across her frame. His grip tightened around the ewer until pain shot through his tendons and his knuckles whitened. Arthur wanted nothing more than to walk back through time and smash the ewer across the faces of the men who’d harmed an innocent child.

“How,” Arthur choked out a moment or two later, “how could he do such a thing?”

“How do people accomplish all horrors? Through ignorance and hatred and lack of human compassion! Some man at some point in our lineage decided a girl became a woman at her first bleed and Papa kept that law in place.”

“But –”

“Just let me finish.” Merewald looked at him now, her expression stormy, and her eyes like molten steel. Arthur fell silent at once and waited for his aunt to continue. “I first bled when I was ten. I would have been married at twelve had Papa not changed his mind when Mama persuaded him to give me a chance to mature up here.” She tapped her temple with her free hand and then took a long swallow from her goblet. “Mama could be wily, and could persuade even the most stubborn men under the right circumstances. She took advantage of that skill whenever she could.” Merewald drained her goblet and then held it out for more water, which Arthur provided immediately, his stomach in his mouth and his heart buried in the earth as she continued with her explanation. Her voice was strained and wavering; it showed just how much the experience affected her still and would as long as she lived. She looked away, looked into the barren fireplace once more. “Other archaic laws claimed I needed to show evidence that he’d forced me. But I didn’t have a scratch. Derek knew how to manipulate the law in his favour. He knew to bring another goblet of wine with him when coming to find me. I was so delighted to see that he’d come to continue our conversation that I let him in and accepted the drink without event thinking, without questioning the fact that he hadn’t brought one for himself. He got me so drunk that I was uncoordinated and almost numb when he crawled into bed with me. I can’t remember most of what happened after that point. Just...flashes.”

Merewald clenched her jaw, the muscles in her throat flexing as she swallowed noticeably, and her hand tightened around her goblet. Several moments of tense silence passed before she raised her goblet and swallowed another mouthful. Sighing, Merewald looked at him.

“Derek started _courting_ me in public. Just as Papa commanded.” Her mouth twisted around a sneer of disgust. “He sent me gifts and other tokens of his twisted _affection_. He requested that I join him on this outing or that outing in view of the King, and I had no choice but to accept because I knew Papa would be displeased enough to throw me in the stocks overnight. You can imagine why I didn’t want to be trapped in that position – not while Derek was still nosing around me like a hound after a bitch. Having to spend time with him made me feel disgusting, but I’d rather have been around him with chaperones than without.” Merewald lowered her gaze and stared down into her goblet. A shudder rippled through her frame. Her free hand curled into a fist in her lap. “The guards and household staff could tell I wasn’t happy, and wouldn’t stop whispering to each other, watching me whenever Derek dared to put a hand on me in some secluded corner. Sometimes he’d press a hand against me and run a thumb across the laces keeping me modest – as though he wanted nothing more than to undo them again. As though he wanted nothing more than to crush me against the mattress again.”

Arthur swallowed another surge of bile immediately, his throat burning, his stomach churning. His urge to go back and beat that man to a pulp intensified. He wanted to tear the bastard to bloodied pieces.

“He was struck down at the hands of a commoner, who’d hit him with an oar hard enough to send him toppling over the cliff. We’d just come back from a _romantic stroll_ along the shore.” Her mouth twisted around yet another sneer. He couldn’t blame her. He couldn’t blame the bitter vitriol for making an appearance as Merewald spoke of the man that abused her. “Papa had been waiting for us to return and saw it from his window before ordering an immediate arrest.”

“And then?” His own voice remaining softer than a whisper, Arthur dreaded to hear the answer to his question. He knew well what happened to commoners that offended or harmed a nobleman. “What happened next?”

“I had to watch the man that saved me from wedding that bastard get dragged into the castle and sentenced to death. I started to show three months later and all marriage prospects evaporated before Papa could finalise them. I was considered spoiled goods.” A bitter huff escaped her. Merewald raised her goblet and drained it before looking Arthur in the eye. “I’d like to be left alone now. Please.”

Arthur rose from his chair immediately, and then reached for his aunt before hesitating, unsure whether he’d be welcome. Merewald took care of the matter when she captured his hand and pulled him down into a warm embrace. She pressed her face against his shoulder, her frame trembling, and Arthur hugged her back just as tightly, his hand stroking over her dark hair. Their embrace lasted a few long moments before Merewald pulled away, reaching up to pat his cheek with a gentle hand and murmuring, “You’re so good to me. I’m not sure what I did to deserve such a good man for a nephew.”

“This has nothing to do with deserving, but you deserve someone good in your life regardless of your history,” Arthur answered easily, covering her hand with his larger one and smiling, the expression warm and soft despite the dark turn their conversation had taken. He tangled their fingers together. “We haven’t known each other long, not compared to how well you knew mother, or your brother, but I do care about you. I want to be here for you. You know you can turn to me when you’re not feeling happy, don’t you? You know you can trust me?”

“I do.” Merewald squeezed his hand. “I trust you more than I’d trust another human being. You’re a survivor, Arthur, and survivors need to support each other.”

Arthur swallowed thickly, and squeezed her hand back before leaning in to press a kiss against her dark hair. He took a step away, and then another, crossing the chamber until he could reach for the door. Then he paused when Merewald called his name. Arthur glanced over his shoulder, his expression curious and concerned.

“Can I join you for your first flight?”

“I’d like that.”


	40. Chapter Thirty-Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, folks!
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think.

Merewald showed him how to saddle a hippogriff without harming the wing joints the next afternoon and then watched as Arthur repeated the demonstration from memory, his hands quick and confident as he saddled Hecate. He then bridled her with just as much care and affection. His hippogriff was aquiver with anticipation. He ran a soothing hand across black feathers and said quietly, “It won’t be long now; just be patient with me. I’m not used to this.” Arthur stared into those enormous and stunning golden eyes and felt his heart melt as Hecate stared back at him without hesitation. He pressed a kiss against her smooth beak. “It might take me a while to grow comfortable with being in the air, so I want you on your best behaviour for the first few flights. No sudden movements. No evasive manoeuvres. Is that understood?”

Hecate trilled softly, bumping her head against his. Arthur smiled warmly, the understanding the winged beast showed easing the tension in his chest somewhat. He still wasn’t confident about launching into the air, but the knowledge that Hecate understood his concerns made it seem easier to face somehow, as though the pair of them were on the same level. She trusted him not to harm her. He trusted her not to let him fall. Arthur closed his eyes as the warmth of her brow pressed against his and then he pressed another affectionate kiss against her beak before pulling away, his hand grazing her feathers as he moved towards the stirrups. He gripped the saddle and mounted between one moment and the next.

Arthur swallowed the soft groan that rose in his throat as his muscles stretched to accommodate her strong and broad frame. It had been forever since he’d straddled something, and his muscles were no longer accustomed to the stretch. Memories flashed across his mind for an instant – treasured memories of riding through the Darkling Wood with Merlin. Heartbreaking memories of teasing his lover, Merlin sprawled on the floor, and Arthur straddling him as those cherished blue eyes stared up at him in blatant adoration. His eyes drifting closed to savour that last memory, Arthur drew in a breath to calm the miserable pulse in his chest and then released it in one long stream. He glanced at his aunt as she mounted her chestnut hippogriff nearby, her movements confident and steady, and more than a fraction delighted at the prospect of taking to the air.

Merewald grinned at Arthur, and then snapped the reins. Nemesis broke into a gallop immediately, heading straight for the edge of the cliff. Arthur swallowed thickly, and Hecate pranced beneath him in response to his anxiety, but he needn’t have worried: his aunt released a shout of euphoria as she and Nemesis plunged over the edge. He looked down at his own mount and made the quick decision to fasten the optional buckles around his calves. Such buckles were used when intending to engage in evasive manoeuvres or aerial combat or so Merewald had informed him earlier, but Arthur was taking no chances for his first flight. He looked towards the edge of the cliff once he felt more secure and gripped the reins tightly, his heart hammering, before snapping the reins.

Hecate bolted like an overeager racehorse and Arthur gripped her with his thighs as his stomach jumped into his mouth. The edge of the cliff neared faster than he anticipated. He refused to close his eyes as Hecate plunged over the edge and plummeted towards the Great Sea of Meredor, her wings unfurling, snapping, and propelling them up and forward before she and Arthur could crash into the waves. His heart attempted to explode in his chest before Arthur managed to calm himself down enough to ease the strong grip of his thighs – such a grip wasn’t even necessary, not while the optional buckles were strapped into place. His muscles were still trembling after he’d convinced himself that the buckles weren’t going to fail to keep him in the saddle.

The small and vulnerable voice inside Arthur, the one he did his best to ignore each day, wanted Merlin. He wanted nothing more than to wind his arms around Merlin and press closer, to press his face against the nape of his neck and squeeze his eyes shut against the height now separating him from the earth below him. But he couldn’t. Arthur was the man in charge now, the one controlling the magical creature beneath him. He could count on no one but himself and his mount now, and that thought unnerved him now that he was in the air, the wind ruffling his hair, whipping his coat and biting into his cheeks.

Arthur focused on his breathing as each beat of those powerful wings propelled them higher and higher, the pair of them chasing after Merewald and Nemesis. His aunt laughed when Arthur and Hecate caught up to them.

“How are you feeling?”

“Sick.” Arthur made a face at her, and then looked out across the waves. He let the Great Sea of Meredor calm him down until his stomach stopped churning, until he could breathe without wanting to throw up. “I’m feeling a bit better now, I think. But I’m still not comfortable with this.”

“Just focus on remaining calm for now,” Merewald answered immediately, her loud and confident voice reaching him over the sound of wings beating, “and the rest will come at some point. I’ll keep a close eye on you while we’re in the air, Arthur, so you don’t have to worry about a thing.”

Merewald offered a warm and encouraging smile and Arthur took it to heart. He trusted the buckles securing his legs in place...but he trusted his more experienced aunt even more. Mustering a small scrap of bravery, Arthur gripped the reins with one hand and reached down to undo the optional buckles with the other, his actions slow and fumbling while his nerves bubbled and frothed inside him. He undid the other side then. Arthur dragged in a long and calming breath and then released it gradually, his mind counting, until his rapid and thundering heartbeat eased back into peaceful silence again. Concentrating upon the calming waters stretching out endlessly, Arthur wondered how far into the horizon one would have to travel to reach the end of the earth. He wondered how far the Great Sea of Meredor stretched before the waters began cascading over the edge and plunged into that endless darkness that enveloped the earth on a cloudless night. A troubled and somewhat confused frown furrowing his brow, Arthur wondered how it could even be possible – for water to flow in one direction and another at the same time.

The concept seemed at odds with what he knew of nature.

Not that he was a leading expert on the subject. Arthur knew the Druids were far more knowledgeable than him and none of those he’d encountered in Cornwall bothered to wonder about the far reaches of the Great Sea of Meredor – at least not enough to contemplate how it might be possible for water to flow over the edge and ripple towards them at the same time. Such things weren’t their concern.

“It isn’t our place to know,” Ansgar had told him one morning, when he’d asked how a vortex of wind could start swirling through natural means – means other than magic to shape nature to the will of a practitioner. She’d been showing him how to weave a net when he’d posed the question. “We observe and we nurture. We don’t question the design of our world: such a show of divine power is not for us to understand until the Gods deem the moment right. Understanding will come in time.”

Arthur and Ansgar had sat in silence for some time before he’d paused in his attempt to weave his own netting. He’d glanced at the Druid elder, asking quietly, “How does your faith remain so strong when mine wavers so often?”

“We all face tests of our faith at some point in our lives.” Ansgar had touched his wrist lightly, her wizened skin chilled from the cool morning air. But her eyes had blazed at him like fires of courage. “I faced mine in the months after your birth. Our kin and other practicing brethren were being slaughtered in that nightmarish realm and those in the farthest reaches of Albion could feel each life extinguishing as though it were happening in our own villages. Or even within our own homes. I felt their utter despair, and their blinding terror, and woke scrabbling for wounds that weren’t mine. I tasted the acrid hatred that spilled across the earth with their blood and their burning flesh on the wind. Mine wasn’t the first faith to waver during that time and it wasn’t the last. Do you know what happened then?”

Arthur had swallowed thickly, knowing, but unable to utter the name after it caught in his throat like it did so often. He’d covered her hand and hoped she’d understood.

“Indeed.” Ansgar had spoken softly, her expression almost motherly, her mouth curling in a smile. She’d turned her hand over to welcome his. “Emrys was indeed born again. His glowing presence flooded the earth with the same strength that yours did. We all felt that presence searching, inexperienced and unknowing, but reaching out for something unexplainable to one so young. He was reaching out for you. I knew then that all that we’d faced over the centuries – the witch hunts and the massacres and the hatred that surged over and over under the rule of this Queen or that King, and even the corruption festering within our own practicing community – had reached its peak. Hatred had nowhere to go but down. Darkness would have no choice but to diminish when his light joined yours and you’d work together to unite the realms and lead our people to a future so bright and beautiful and welcoming that I fell to the grass and wept. I wept with grief and regret for those who’d never see such that future. I wept with relief for those who would. I’ve never lost faith since that moment. It seems hard now to keep the faith and remain strong, but I’ll tell you a secret: trust between mortals and the divine must be mutual for the bond to work.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The relationship between mortals and the divine isn’t unlike the relationship between a monarch and their subjects. How can a monarch lead a subject that doesn’t trust them? Sometimes...a King or Queen must make a difficult decision that doesn’t seem helpful in the short run...but could benefit their people in the long run. We trust them to know and understand how their actions and choices will benefit us in the future. A King or Queen must trust us to perform our duties in return – not just to spend our long lives fishing and farming, forging and wielding, healing and learning, but to also spend them loving and welcoming, both of which are needed to make a realm worth fighting for. A realm founded upon distrust will crumble to pieces sooner rather than later. I’m afraid the same can happen with faith. Some peoples’ faith never recovered after the atrocities our kind has faced. Can you blame them?”

Arthur had shaken his head in silence and looked away, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth and thinking, contemplating how to ease such faith back into existence without causing more harm than good. He’d known then that he’d have to speak to Merlin about it whenever the man reunited with Arthur, whenever the Gods felt the time was right to reunite them. Arthur was almost certain that he’d know when the Gods believed him ready, ready to reunite with his lover, ready to start uniting the realms with Merlin at his side.

Now, soaring across the sky, Arthur wondered when that moment would come. He wondered when the Gods would believe him ready, if he could ever be ready, truly, for something so immense. But he supposed that was the reason Merlin would be with him during his reign: a man couldn’t bear the weight of such an immense fate alone. He couldn’t imagine doing such a thing without support of some description – regardless of whether that support came in the form of a wife or husband or even a council of advisors.

Still contemplating, Arthur started going through the almost endless list of names in his head as he tried to shape the ghost of a council. He wanted people from all walks of life on his council to add their expertise to the pool of resources Arthur would dip into when necessary, when he needed their council most. He’d need people that understood diplomacy and strategy, farming and fishing and forestry, and who also understood the needs of common folk. He’d also need someone more cunning than him on his council to guide him through delicate and dangerous matters that would make him stumble – at least until he started developing some level of cunning himself. He’d need a representative or two from the magical community; someone other than Merlin – just to ensure that council sessions avoided as much personal bias as possible. It was difficult to remain impartial when matters affected those he loved in particular.

Tucking that small tendril of wisdom away, Arthur then started thinking about his personal guard. He wanted people he could trust to surround him and their names glowed across his mind immediately, names of people who’d served him already, courageous and determined and kind when not acting like scurrilous rogues.

Sir Gwaine was one such rogue.

Face warming, Arthur remembered the night he and Sir Percival had first invited him to join them at the tavern. He could remember the drinking, and the laughing, and the numerous dice games. He could remember the flirting directed at him when Sir Gwaine was far from sober, sidling up to him and claiming that he was pretty, which had Arthur choking on his ale in an instant. He could also remember the burst of warm breath against his palm as Arthur had shoved the scurrilous rogue away, not to mention the ensuing fit of laughter before Sir Gwaine rose from the bench and crossed the tavern to get another tankard of ale for himself.

“He isn’t wrong,” Sir Percival had said quietly, looking askance at Arthur, whose face had still been red with embarrassment and disbelief. The mountain of a man opposite him had been sober in comparison to either of them – it was a measure Sir Percival often took whenever Sir Gwaine planned to drink himself into a stupor; he’d watch the rogue with a fond and loving gaze that often had Arthur twitching, eager to retreat and nurse the hollow ache in his chest that flared up whenever he was reminded of what he’d once shared with Merlin. “You _are_ rather fetching, Your Highness.”

“The relevance doesn’t matter,” Arthur had muttered into his tankard. His knuckles had whitened from gripping it so hard. “I’m a promised man and Sir Gwaine should respect that fact – sober or not.”

“He meant no harm and intends nothing,” Sir Percival had chided gently, “beyond what you’d allow. Gwaine has certain scruples even when drinking, Your Highness.”

Arthur had grunted a response and drained a whole tankard of ale before excusing himself from their company, intending to make the trek back to the castle. The tavern had spun around him for a long and disorienting moment. Sir Gwaine had been disappointed to see him leaving, but he’d patted Sir Percival on the shoulder, slurring an order for him to make sure Arthur returned to the castle safe and sound after drinking so much. Almost reluctantly, Arthur had admitted to himself that Sir Percival wasn’t wrong: that Sir Gwaine possessed his strong and admirable concern for other people even when drunk. Some minutes later, crossing the bridge while Sir Percival walked alongside him and used a strong and firm hand to keep him steady, Arthur had allowed himself to admit as much aloud.

“His scruples are the reason he serves Cornwall in the first place. He was born and raised under the rule of King Cenred. Gwaine and his kin were banished when his father spoke against legalizing Prima Nocta.”

His attention had snapped towards his companion in an instant and the toe of his boot had caught between the boards. He’d almost pitched forward before Sir Percival hauled him upright and steadied him. Sir Percival had cast a concerned glance over him at once.

“Don’t worry,” Arthur had been quick to say, feeling so much more than humiliated after his stumble. “I’m fine! But as I was going to say: does Sir Gwaine know King Cenred is dead? Does he know that Morgause Le Fay rules the Essetian realm now? How come he hasn’t gone home?”

“Cornwall is his home now,” Sir Percival had answered with a simple shrug, his gentle hand urging Arthur onward and upward. A chuckle had escaped him and an amused smile had curled his mouth. “The same can be said for me. I was born in Camelot. Father had us relocate after claiming the Gods visited him in a dream. He still hasn’t opened up about what was said – just that we needed to move to Cornwall. Actually, Gwaine and I met along the way, and we’ve been close ever since. Naturally, his parents weren’t fond of me.”

“How could anyone not be fond of you?”

“I come from a long line of pig farmers.” The teasing note in his voice hadn’t even managed to conceal the lingering bitterness that underscored his words. “Gwaine comes from noble stock and our...connection wasn’t something his parents favoured. Neither one of them favours it even now, though the pair refuses to speak of the matter after Gwaine threatened to elope with me!” Sir Percival had laughed then. “Not that Gwaine is the kind to tie the knot. But his threat worked in an instant and his parents are at least civil with me now, even deigning to invite me to supper now and then.”

“Does it pain you?”

“Which part?”

“That he isn’t the kind to tie the knot.”

“Not particularly,” Sir Percival had answered quietly, frowning when Arthur had looked up at his tall companion kindly, compassionately, his drunken vision blurring a fraction around the edges. “Gwaine and I have an understanding, Your Highness. We’re together, but we aren’t tied to each other, not in the same sense that married couples would be. Sometimes he seduces someone into bed and sometimes I do. Sometimes we even share a conquest. But our bond remains as strong as ever, Your Highness.”

“But don’t you...don’t you ever feel like...like his continued dalliances mean you aren’t good enough for him? That you fall short of some unexpressed standard he must keep?” Arthur had looked out across the dark water, his vision stinging and his stomach churning, uncomfortable with the notion of not meeting expectations. His mouth had continued talking, his voice quietening, without his consent as the ale coursing through his blood kept his tongue loose and almost slurring. “I’d feel like that. I felt like that even when I knew Merlin was devoted to me. Sometimes I still feel like that.”

“Because you’re a tender thing,” Sir Percival had murmured warmly, wrapping a powerful arm around him when Arthur began sniffling and struggling not to show it. He’d tugged him closer and Arthur had felt both humiliated and grateful simultaneously, his face flaming, but his frame turning to melted butter. He’d just been glad Sir Gwaine hadn’t been around to watch him make an emotional fool of himself. “You’ve let me see a glimmer, but it didn’t take much confessing for me to know you had a rough life in Camelot. How you feel after living your whole life in that place is understandable. I know, however, that you can and will overcome those difficulties. Maybe not completely, but you’ll learn to ignore them when it matters most. It takes time and determination and a bit less ale.”

Arthur had choked out a startled laugh then and nudged the mountain of a man away, quick to say, “I resent the accusation that I’m a drunkard. I’m sober, practically, right now, especially compared to Sir Gwaine!”

“That wouldn’t be hard.”

“So you admit I’m sober?”

“I admit Gwaine is far drunker,” Sir Percival had answered immediately, laughing at the indignant noise that had escaped Arthur, who’d almost tripped again and righted himself with an uncoordinated flail of his arms. “Were you often like this in Camelot?”

“Drunk?”

“Clumsy.”

“Not all the time.” Arthur had shrugged and looked down at the grass as he and his companion had stepped off the bridge spanning the gap between Tintagel Castle and the lower town. “Clumsiness tended to show up when I was nervous about something, or afraid for some reason or another, and it was prevalent when this stupid arm was healing, but that was to be expected. Merlin thought it was endearing,” Arthur had grumbled as his boots thundered against the stone steps leading into the castle. “But that man is an idiot.”

“He sounds like a good man to me.”

“One of the best men I’ve ever known.” Arthur had swallowed thickly, his heart thumping in his chest. He’d started fiddling with his ring at once. His insides had started squirming around like miserable worms. “I miss him.”

Shaking his head to dislodge that memory, Arthur watched as Merewald and Nemesis banked to the left and swooped low, and then he and Hecate followed suit without hesitating, though his innards tensed with fear and discomfort. His thighs gripped the winged beast beneath him even tighter. Hecate let out a trill of delight as the wind streamed between her handsome feathers. A small smile managed to curl his mouth at the sound of her joy, and Arthur knew, despite his continued fear of falling, some part of him would become comfortable with the air for the sake of his hippogriff. Hecate was born to fly, and now her wellbeing was his responsibility, and Arthur could never withhold this from her when doing so would break her wild heart. He ran a hand over the feathers in front of him and the warmth of her comforted him.

Arthur and Merewald soared through the air for two hours before returning to find two grooms waiting to lead their mounts back to the paddock for a rubdown. Hecate and Nemesis hit the ground running, their powerful muscles rippling, and disturbing the grass with their sudden ferocious presence. Arthur dismounted at once and fell to the ground when his abused muscles gave way, overstretched and aching, the grass pressing soft against his face. A pleased chuckle escaped him. He’d missed this feeling, the one that came after a long period of riding, and his heart softened as he remembered that first ride with Merlin. He remembered the soft look Merlin had given him when he settled beside him. His eyes drifted closed as he let himself remember how his former master touched his arm so gently, deliberately, uncertain of his welcome and yearning to find out.

His fingers curled in the grass.

A soft chuckle distracted him from the memory, and Arthur snapped his attention to Her Majesty, who was watching him with an odd and somewhat sad expression on her face.

“You know,” Merewald said quietly, moving to sit down near Arthur, “seeing you look so in love is bizarre. You were just this small and vulnerable little bundle when I first met you and you’re an adult now, and I never feel sure what to do or say, especially when it comes to you being in love. Did you know we used to imagine all sorts of scenarios when you were still in the womb? Your mother and I used to come up with strategies to deal with them because we knew your father wouldn’t be able to handle someone looking to him for guidance. He could just about handle his own emotional matters.”

“What kind of scenarios?”

“None like the situation you’re in.” Merewald directed a miserable smile at him and Arthur scrambled to sit up immediately, reaching for her hand and squeezing, doing his best to comfort her without uttering a word. “I hope you can find strength enough to forgive me for leaving, Arthur, for not standing up to your father when you were born. I fled like a coward because I was grieving, and not just for your mother, but also for the two babes I’d lost. Witnessing your mother give birth that night brought those painful memories rushing to the surface and I wasn’t prepared for them in the least. I’d thought it would be easier on your mother,” Merewald said quietly, squeezing his hand in return and begging him to understand with her eyes. “Ygraine was so much older than I was when I was...when I had to bring children into the world. She’d matured as I’d never had the chance to. I’d thought her giving birth to you would be easier, quicker, and painless compared to what I went through as a girl. I was so wrong. Childbirth is agonising, Arthur, and so traumatic. I wasn’t prepared to relive that.”

“Hey,” murmured Arthur, shifting forward to wrap his arms around her, his embrace warm and tight and welcoming, just like when Merewald had embraced him for the first time after the incident with Gwen. He crushed her close for a long moment and then withdrew enough to look at his aunt. Arthur spoke quietly, gently, but firmly, ensuring that Merewald believed each word he uttered in that moment. “I don’t blame you for that. I never have – not even before I learned about your loss. I haven’t lived a life so terrible that I’d ever hold you accountable for such a thing, you know, not when I have so much to be grateful for. For someone so great at giving advice to your nephew, you’re terrible at following that advice yourself.”

“I know.” Merewald almost choked on a burst of laughter before flopping down on the grass with a tired sigh. Arthur settled down next to her immediately, close enough to feel a hint of her warmth. “I’m such a hypocrite.”

“But you’re the tolerable kind.”

Arthur couldn’t help but smile when Merewald tossed a disbelieving glance at him. She swatted him. He swatted her back at once. It back became a battle for dominance within moments of swatting each other, the pair of them throwing themselves into the scuffle until Merewald had him squashed under her, laughing and squirming, struggling to escape from the agile fingers determined to tickle him into submission.

“I surrender,” Arthur gasped some time later, his skin breaking out in a sweat from the surge of exertion and his eyes beginning to water from laughing, “I surrender!”

“Quitter,” Merewald teased before cuffing his head and flopping down on the grass again and chuckling, her melancholic demeanour extinguished and replaced with warm sunshine. Panting, Arthur shuffled closer, revelling in the familial bond still growing between himself and his aunt. He wondered whether his mother would have waged such a tender war against him when he was a boy, if she’d had the chance to raise him. He wondered how their relationship would have developed. Sighing, Arthur pressed his brow against a thick shoulder and managed a small smile when his aunt ruffled his hair, her hand careless and loving, but not quite the comfort he wanted in that moment.

That evening, his hair damp and his frame warm and pliant from bathing, Arthur settled at his writing desk after a brief discussion with Ninianne and her mother, and her concerned father, who kept sending him imploring glances. He stared down at the blank sheet of parchment and sighed. Arthur reached for his quill and dipped it into the inkwell before drawing his bottom lip between his teeth and writing:

 

_Sister,_

_I know we parted on less than amicable terms in the past and that we are far from being allied with each other, though we still share a common enemy._

_But I’m not writing to you about him._

_I’m writing to you about a ward of mine – a young witch that needs guidance from one more experienced with prophetic dreams. She has been blessed with Hindsight and I fear that gift might be developing into prophecy, but I know little about such intrinsic magic and you are the one person I know gifted enough to explain what might be happening._

_In return for helping her, I’m willing to begin afresh with you. Her education and wellbeing matter more to me than the moral compass that divided us so long ago. I hope you can find forgiveness enough to answer this plea._

_Sincerely,_

_Arthur Pendragon._


	41. Chapter Forty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, folks.
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think.

_Arthur,_

_I’m glad you reached out to me for aid in this matter. I’m more than willing to help the poor girl discover how her gift might be developing, no matter what path that gift takes. Nothing helped me more than the guidance I received from the more experienced witches on the Isle of the Blessed. Their lifelong tutelage made dealing with this gift easier, made accepting it easier, and I’d love to do the same for your ward._

_Our gifts need to be treated with care and respect._

_I have to say, however, I found the opening of your letter far more troubling, to be quite honest. You need to know that I never considered you an enemy, no matter how disastrous our last encounter proved to be._

_Brother, I’ve lost count of the hours I’ve spent reflecting about our last encounter and the choices I made that led us both to that point._

_I did something terrible and irrevocable in your name. Understandably, you couldn’t condone that action in good conscience. How can I blame you for that?_

_Your inherent belief that even the smallest and most invisible lives matter is what drew me to you in the first place. I used to dream of you when I was a child. I dreamt of you sitting in trees with your adoptive father, listening to birds singing, watching them jump and flutter about as though each one were beautiful and fascinating, as though each of them were magical. I dreamt of you watching worms wriggling around in the earth or beetles plodding along and saw you smiling, viewing the small and insignificant lives in front of you as something precious – the complete opposite of how you viewed yourself even then._

_How you’d been conditioned to view yourself._

_I dreamt of you diving into a thicket when you heard someone coming, fearing it was that vile brute of a boy, Jeffrey Webster, but it turned out to be the young Prince instead. I watched you watch hounds twice the size of him pull the little Prince along, your hand covering your mouth to smother your burst of laughter, watching those hounds with stars in your eyes._

_How could someone so warm and loving ever condone what I did?_

_I deserved each ounce of your condemnation and anger; I planned the murder of that innocent and harmless young man because I was so focused on the future that I neglected to consider the present. I neglected to consider the consequences of that murder – the injustice of a life extinguished prematurely; the endless grief of his family; the despair of his benevolent master; and the anger and distrust you would come to show me when I at last revealed the truth about what happened. I neglected to consider that you would hate me for what I did in your name._

_I wasn’t acting in self-defence._

_I wasn’t acting to protect someone else._

_I acted to ensure your future as King, and mine as an advisor, an ally, someone placed close enough to the crown that I could speak out about being a Pendragon without fear of reprisal._

_I was terrified when I learned that I was your sister, and the fact that I was illegitimate and the result of an adulterous affair worsened the matter: I was a blemish for more reasons than one. Being illegitimate would have meant being unwanted or unacknowledged had our accursed father lived long enough to know me. Being a Pendragon made me a curse – the same curse that people once considered you to be. I stood witness to how you were treated in Camelot. I witnessed so much cruelty, so much injustice and hatred and vitriol. I wanted to help put an end to that. I wanted you to trust me and I made a terrible mistake that I can never take back._

_You don’t know how much I regret what I did._

_I can never atone for what I did and that should be the way, but I’m...grateful that you offered this olive branch when I don’t deserve such consideration. I’m grateful for the second chance you’ve given me._

_I hope you’ll consider the items escorting this letter as an act of good faith._

_Faithfully,_

_Morgana Pendragon._

_P.S: I still smell of singe after breaking through the countless wards that tried to keep me from getting the second item. But I persisted. I know you’ve been lonely, so I thought you might like to have something familiar with you. Once I have the delegation of various duties in order, I’ll head for Cornwall and you can tell me whether I’ve overstepped. Expect me before the end of the week._

Arthur looked at the small wrapped bundle that had accompanied the letter amid an explosion of harmless and somewhat beautiful white flames that materialised in front of his breakfast a moment or so ago. It had arrived in a manner similar to how he’d sent his own letter, having asked one of the various and more powerful sorcerers to transport it with magic. A drop of his own blood and an invocation of his sister’s name had both been used to ensure it reached the correct person.

Curious excitement sent his heart racing, but his chest tightened with anxiety; the emotions were an odd set of bedfellows that made his hands clench and unclench several times.

Arthur lapped at the grease from a sausage lingering at the corner of his mouth and swallowed before reaching for the bundle. He drew it closer to him. He undid the laces and unfolded the cloth with care and then inhaled sharply, his vision blurring, his hands beginning to tremble. Arthur snatched the familiar crystal from the bundle and almost choked on a sob at the immediate and familiar surge of euphoric magic that enveloped him like a warm balm. A single tear slipped down his face as tendrils of beautiful magic wound around his body, cradling him as Merlin used to cradle him close and pushing through his hair, caressing his jaw. The magic hummed and vibrated around him as one tear led to another until Arthur started weeping almost uncontrollably, the rest of his breakfast forgotten in favour of losing himself to the magic that was once a treasured piece of his lover, his Merlin. He wept until he could weep no longer and listened to the quiet prompting, the careful nudging, rising from his chair to stumble over to bed in nothing but his sleepwear, crawling beneath the blankets while never relinquishing his hold upon the crystal.

The magic remained vibrant and strong as Arthur slipped the leather cord over his neck with one hand and slumped against the mattress. Enveloped with magic and the remembered embrace of his lover, Arthur slept off the exhaustion that followed his emotional upheaval and woke two hours later, feeling blissful and groggy, a dazed smile curling his mouth as tendrils of magic soothed him all over.

He’d never felt so cherished since his flight from Camelot.

“I’ve missed you.” His face warmed at the unbidden admission that escaped on a mumble. It felt ridiculous to confess the words to nothing but air, but the magic surrounded him seemed pleased when the warm embrace tightened around him in reply, earning a startled noise that eased into a faint chuckle. But his chuckle soon faded into an odd melancholy, one underscored with affection as the magic continued to embrace him. “I’ve missed you so much. I miss Merlin even more.”

The magic seemed to wilt at the mention of Merlin – as though even the displaced power wrapped around him were grieving, missing its master – but then it came back twice as strong a moment later, as though it were determined to do its master proud. It warmed around him even more as a result. A sweat breaking out across his body, Arthur swallowed and shifted against the bedclothes in discomfort. He gasped a moment later as his nightshirt ripped straight down the middle and spread apart until his chest was bared completely, his nipples tightening upon exposure to the warm tingle of magic in the air, almost begging for attention. Arthur dropped the crystal in surprise and remained so when the magic continued to envelope him despite the absence of his hand around the crystal and the direction of his will. That familiar power caressed him tenderly, deliberately, and Arthur relaxed into the touch without much hesitancy, moaning softly, uncaring of how unnatural such active and uncontrolled magic was.

He’d grown accustomed to Merlin and the abnormalities of his magic a long time ago.

Honestly, one of his best memories involved said magic pinning him to the stone floor and undoing his laces while Merlin struggled to get his power back under control.

Giving in to that pleasurable touch was inevitable.

It wasn’t long until his manhood was hard and aching, flushed and proud between muscular thighs that spread wider, warm tendrils of magic nudging them apart. Arthur drew his bottom lip between his teeth as anticipation curled hot and tight in his belly, but he still wasn’t prepared for the surge of heat that enveloped his arousal. His back arched as Arthur choked on a startled cry, his eyes fluttering closed and his thighs trembling, a strangled curse escaping him as the exquisite heat wrapped around his manhood grew wet. His hand shot down to grip raven hair that wasn’t there and then fell to clutch at the bedclothes frantically, his knuckles whitening, desperate. A strong band of magic spread across him and pinned Arthur down when his hips began rocking, eager and hungry, wanting more of that delicious wet heat.

The familiar magic tortured him exquisitely, that wet heat sliding up and down his arousal slowly, deliberately, leaving him a desperate mess straining against the power pinning him to the mattress.

Another curse escaped him.

Was this what he’d put Merlin through in Ealdor? When he’d lowered himself to his knees and drawn his lover into his mouth with care? When he’d taken his time to explore Merlin for the first time?

Now, unable to even writhe beneath the force tormenting him and moaning, his hands desperate to fist raven hair, Arthur couldn’t help but think his own actions had been cruel and unnecessary.

Twin tendrils of magic slithered up past his stomach almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind and Arthur cried out as his sensitive nipples were subjected to the same wet heat. His back arched again as pleasure coursed through him in a thick wave. Magic tugged and tweaked and suckled and lapped at his nipples until Arthur had to choke back a whine. Pleasure coiled inside him over and over, wrapping around his spine with delicious force that showed just how close he was to reaching his climax.

All because of a phantom touch!

Arthur started peaking a moment later, his thick frame twitching, muscles tensing and relaxing in rapid succession as his seed spilled and spilled and spilled. A strangled sob of pleasure escaped Arthur as the magic stroked and teased him through the climax of his ecstasy, guiding him through it until he was boneless and pliant and oversensitive on the bed. Magic sprawled across him then in blatant satisfaction – not unlike a cat that got the cream. Arthur started laughing, the sound weak and broken with his panting, his chest heaving; it shouldn’t have surprised him that the magic once belonging to his lover could be a smug bastard when the situation called for such an attitude.

It wasn’t a surprise when the magic started rippling, eradicating the chilling sweat as Arthur continued to luxuriate against the bedclothes trapped beneath him. He hummed in approval and a tendril of magic slid upwards to caress his jaw, and further, brushing across the tender lip he’d bitten until it grew sore and a little swollen. Arthur shuddered at the touch. Eyes heavy, Arthur luxuriated in the caress and remembered his former master, his lover, his Merlin. Idly, he wondered whether letting the magic pleasure him counted as having an affair, but then decided he was being ridiculous.

“I’m going to have a serious word with your master someday,” mumbled Arthur a moment later, muscles still quivering as he turned over, nestling his sensitive skin against the bedclothes as the magic slithered around to sprawl across his back now, “when he gains control of you again. We can’t have you slithering around like a snake and molesting people whenever you feel like it. Not that I minded much on this occasion.” An idiotic smile curled his mouth as that familiar power thrummed behind him. Arthur shifted to make himself more comfortable and almost purred when the magic caressed his hip with just enough pressure. “Is this how you treat all his lovers?”

The scolding tug of his hair was answer enough.

Chuckling, Arthur lapsed into silence and luxuriated in the warmth still blanketing him. It wasn’t long until he was dozing, feeling more safe and secure in his bed than he ever had before. He was still dozing when someone knocked on the door, the sound loud and demanding, and Arthur jolted into wakefulness and realised he’d forgotten about training.

Arthur cursed and scrambled out of bed – and almost fell on his face in his haste. He snatched his dressing gown from the chair placed nearby, and donned it with practiced ease. He tied the sash of his dressing gown with trembling hands and cast a stern glance at the various tendrils of magic still hovering over the mattress. Obediently, it slithered closer and wound itself around him until it could disappear back into the crystal. He hummed in approval and then winced as someone pounded on his door again. His embarrassment and discomfort mounting, Arthur hastened to the door and wrenched it open to reveal a furious Merewald de Bois.

“You know, the decent thing would have been to send word excusing yourself instead of leaving me waiting around like an idiot.”

“I forgot.” Flushing, Arthur looked away, his hand fisting the lapels of his dressing gown and crushing it closed near the base of his neck. Humiliation blazed inside him even as guilt gnawed at his gut. He’d let himself get distracted and now Merewald was angry, and he understood why; he’d have been just as furious had he been in her position and someone left him waiting around without an explanation. Arthur stepped back to let his aunt through and swallowed a pained noise as waves of anger washed over him in passing, threatening to drown him. He directed an imploring gaze at her back as she came to a stop in the middle of the room and breathed in a mouthful of air, her frame tensing further. “Something happened earlier and I was distracted. I never meant to forget. Surely, you know I’d never leave you waiting on purpose?”

“Setting aside your duties to masturbate isn’t the same as forgetting,” Merewald snapped at once. She whirled around and levelled a stern and disappointed glare at him. “I can’t believe you just lied to me.”

“I wasn’t masturbating!”

“I find that hard to believe. It smells like a brothel in here – minus the perfume and incense.”

“I _wasn’t_ masturbating,” Arthur insisted hotly, his face flaming deeper, knowing the applied description wasn’t far from the truth and yet he hadn’t lied at all. He reached for the crystal now dangling from around his neck and a flicker of relief rippled through him when the magic remained dormant within. He wasn’t interested in a repeat performance in front of his damned aunt. “A letter from Morgana came for me this morning and this came with it. She stole it from Camelot for me. Anyway, as I was explaining: the power within once belonged to Merlin. His magic is an affectionate and wilful thing and it wanted me to feel better, so it chose to distract me for a while.”

Merewald snorted in disbelief at the rather unexpected admission and then began laughing, the storm of her anger melting into good humour and her shoulders shaking, her hand rising to cover her face. Embarrassment burned inside him at the sound of her laughter, though he knew his aunt meant no harm in laughing, but Arthur couldn’t help feeling as though Merewald were laughing at him. Arthur looked away, his throat tightening, his frame tensing, and dropped the crystal in favour of folding his arms across his chest and waiting for the laughter to wane.

“Arthur,” Merewald said tiredly, her laughter fading at last and her hand falling, “I just wish you’d told me that you weren’t coming. I don’t have endless hours to spend waiting for you to arrive. I have to set aside more than a dozen different things I could be doing just to spend time with you. Had I known you weren’t coming, I could have done them instead. Do you understand?”

“Your meaning is clear, Your Majesty,” murmured Arthur, inclining his head in painful understanding. He couldn’t help the sharp twist in his stomach. He struggled not to reach for his ancestral ring, his chest tightening, his throat beginning to close up as he grew anxious. It took a moment or two to get the muscles in his throat back under his control. His voice never even quivered when Arthur spoke next. “I’ll have Sir Percival train me full time from now on. I’d rather not risk wasting your valuable time in future.”

“Arthur –”

Arthur pushed past her, his heart hammering upon hearing the pained note in her voice. He needed to get out of sight. Swallowing, Arthur crossed the chamber and pulled open the wardrobe as he stamped down on the pressing urge to turn around and plead for forgiveness for being a burden. He selected his clothes with utmost care and disappeared behind the screen he never used on a usual morning, struggling to ignore the sound of her footsteps approaching, her hand touching the screen. Arthur dressed in silence and was almost fit for a council appearance when he emerged to find Merewald smiling, her expression miserable as she stared at Arthur, stepping forward to say, “That wasn’t what I meant.”

“You don’t need to explain yourself to me. You’re the Queen and I’m here to serve the realm in whatever fashion is necessary, even if that means stepping back to ensure you have time to complete your duties. I don’t want you spending time with me out of some sense of obligation.”

“Apparently, I do need to explain – because you’re being an insecure fool right now and I can’t allow that to happen when I have the power to derail these dangerous thoughts.”

Arthur flinched back a step.

Merewald stepped forward again and touched his arm. His attention snapped in her direction. His frame grew almost painful with tension as Arthur struggled to keep his insecurities from rippling across his face. Her voice quietened further and her hand tightened around his arm.

“Arthur,” Merewald said gently, but firmly, “I don’t consider spending time with you an obligation and you’re far from being a burden to me. I’ve never thought that for even a moment. I _make time_ for you because I _want_ to. Your presence here and your wellbeing matter as much to me as the realm I govern. If anything, you matter so much more to me. I never meant for you to think I’d rather be working than spending time with you! That just isn’t true!”

Arthur swallowed as Merewald ploughed into him and wrapped him in a crushing embrace. A spasm ran through his aching muscles. It took a moment to make his arms move accordingly, Arthur wrapping them around her in return. He pressed his face against her hair and relished the familial bond still developing between them. Merewald looked at him when she drew away, asking, “Will you send word that you won’t be coming the next time you’re distracted? That would have been enough to avoid this conversation in the first place.”

“I will.”

“Good.” A tired chuckle escaped Merewald and then she looked away, heaving a sigh. She looked at him again. An apologetic note underscored her voice when she spoke next. “You must be pleased to have some part of him back.”

“I am.” Arthur ran a finger over the crystal and couldn’t help smiling, the magic pulsing against his skin in brief acknowledgement before growing dormant again. An almost bashful smile curled his mouth. “His magic comforted me almost as often as Merlin did. It’ll be nice to have that again.”

“You speak like his magic is a separate person.”

“Because it seems that way,” Arthur answered quietly, moving past her, settling down in the nearest chair. “Merlin was special. He wasn’t like other sorcerers. He was using magic long before he could speak and he was powerful – so powerful that even the wildest forces of nature would bend to his will or even react to his emotions. A violent storm raged through Camelot when he lost his temper with me once. It was like nothing I’d ever imagined.” Merewald stared at him as she settled in the chair opposite him. She seemed uncomfortable at the thought of such power, but seemed discomfited at the thought of it being directed at him in particular. Arthur looked down at his ancestral ring and started fiddling, drawing his still-tender bottom lip between his teeth and nibbling, his brow furrowing as he mulled over the words forming his explanation. “The Druids claim Merlin used to be an immortal being, one who gave the bulk of his power up to be reborn when the first incarnation of me was fading from the earth. He ensured that we would be reunited in each new life that followed when he bound our souls together, and that connection makes our separation unbearable even now. Merlin was considered the greatest sorcerer to ever walk the earth before Bayard stole his power and I’ve been told that even that vast sea of power was a fraction compared to what that first version of Merlin wielded before he gave it up and let it soak into the fabric of this world. I don’t know what kind of being could have mastered such a power. I’m not even sure I want to know. What I do know is that his magic is devoted to me completely, irrevocably, eternally. I felt its euphoria when it reunited with me. I felt that devotion. His magic has emotions as strong as you or I would.”

“Are you sure you aren’t projecting? I know you’re lonely, so lonely, though you do your best to hide that fact from the public. Projecting would be understandable after such a long separation.”

“I’m not projecting.” Arthur spoke with utter conviction. He’d never been more confident about something in his entire life. He could feel his spine straightening, his shoulders squaring, and his chest expanding with that confidence. He could feel it filling him up and it felt amazing. “I’m not imagining it. His magic is part of Merlin and it has a connection with me as a result. Obviously, you have trouble grasping the idea because you haven’t experienced his magic as I have and that is more than okay, but I don’t appreciate the suggestion that I’m making it up because I miss Merlin that much. His magic came alive for me before our separation even occurred. It would hold me at night and heal me whenever Bayard abused me. All I needed to do was hold the crystal.”

He and Merewald continued to converse for several minutes before she headed away, after giving him a pointed reminder about the council session that would be starting soon enough. Arthur, however, remained in his chamber, running a finger over the crystal to reassure himself. It thrummed at his touched. Smiling, Arthur located his sword and strapped it to his belt before returning to his desk to have a look at what else Morgana had sent with her letter. His breath caught when he spotted a familiar white hilt. He lifted the familiar scabbard and wrapped his hand around the hilt. He drew the blade with aching familiarity, his heart thumping, his breath living him in a rush.

Arthur had last seen Carnwennan in Ealdor, before he and Merlin had made love together, and to have her back now threatened to make his heart explode with delight.

It took less than a moment to strap Carnwennan to his belt.

That surge of confidence still pumping through his body, Arthur picked up the platter burdened with his abandoned breakfast and vacated his rooms. He prompted the magic to secure the door; he didn’t want a chambermaid discovering the torn remains of his nightshirt and starting a rumour about his bedroom activities. He was more than aware that the serving staff could take a single fact and invent a million different stories to accommodate it. Heading down the corridor, Arthur ate the slices of cheese on offer and handed the platter to the first chambermaid he spotted with a word of gratitude.

The repeated slap of his boots against the stone was loud and commanding; a sound he’d been working on since he’d accepted his duties as Crown Prince of Cornwall. It was now bolstered with the magical presence of his other half.

Arthur arrived outside the council room in good time and stepped through the doorway, acknowledging the respectful bows directed his way, offering a smile to Leon. His aunt wasn’t yet in attendance. That fact allowed him to slip over to his friend and murmur a warm greeting.

“You seem different.”

“I feel different.” Arthur shrugged and looked away, smiling, his chest warm with happiness. He looked back at Leon. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Quite the contrary,” Leon answered immediately, amusement curling his mouth and a twinkle in his eye. He had a dozen scrolls tucked under his arm in preparation for the council session. “The change is becoming, Sire. I hope it lasts.”

“I’m sure it will.” Arthur glanced around the chamber, noting a few gazes still lingering, and had to swallow a pleased chuckle when the magic resting against his chest pulsed in possessive irritation. “Are you still joining me for supper tonight?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

His words were reassuring, though Arthur found he never needed such reassurance from Leon in recent weeks. His clever friend was insistent on arriving on time for the various appointments on his schedule. It made no difference whether that appointment was a private and personal one with Arthur or an important one with the illuminator or the merchants whenever new texts came to shore from Hibernia or the continent. Leon was like an eager pup at the thought of getting his hands on new books. Arthur had often witnessed his bursts of enthusiasm in the library, the man beaming from ear to ear, his latest acquisition in hand as he crossed the cordon to show him.

Arthur shook his head to dislodge the memory, and approached his seat when Merewald swept through the door, clad in clothes finer than his own. Leon did the same beside him. The various people in the council chamber waited until Merewald had taken her seat before seating themselves.

“Thank you all for coming,” said Merewald warmly, an amused smile blooming on her face as she gazed down the length of the table. “I know some of you would rather be out sailing right now, so we’ll get through this meeting as quick as we can. Are there new names to be added to the genealogical records?”

Three men and two women raised proud hands.

Leon unrolled a clean sheet of parchment and opened the available pot of ink. He dipped in a quill and started taking note of names and dates and familial ties that would later be added to the official records kept in the library, which Arthur had spent some time perusing during the winter, both because he was curious and because he needed to know who was who when it came time for his own reign. Not that he much liked thinking about that prospect while Merewald still governed him.

Arthur remained attentive for the entire meeting, that continuous thrum of confidence keeping him from slumping, his gaze alert as he listened to each report. He frowned whenever he found something troubling or confusing and waited for a pause before asking a question that earned subtle approval from Her Majesty, whose mouth quirked up in the faintest smile.

The council session lasted just under two hours and Arthur felt as though he’d accomplished something when he rose from his chair, his shoulders still squared despite the faint weariness settling into his frame. He offered his elbow to his aunt and smiled when Merewald accepted the offer immediately, her own weariness concealed behind a smile of her own.

“Dine with me?”

“Certainly,” Arthur answered pleasantly, eager to have lunch with her. It was almost a tradition to do so now. He escorted Merewald from the council chamber and through corridor after corridor, the pair conversing and laughing, and beamed when he found his adoptive kin waiting outside her chambers – all of whom were dressed for an afternoon meal with the Queen of Cornwall. Arthur turned to press a thankful kiss against a warm cheek and Merewald smiled in answer, nudging him away, chuckling.

“I thought you’d appreciate the surprise!”

“You know me too well.”

“Not well enough.” Merewald looked askance at him. “I still have the bulk of two and a half decades of your life to catch up on. But we have time enough for that later. I need to catch up on lunch right now; I’m ravenous!”

Arthur chuckled and opened the door before stepping away, allowing Merewald to precede him into the chamber, as was her right: as Queen of Cornwall and as the one to whom the royal chambers belonged. Smiling, he let the others precede him as well and the followed along, pulling the door closed behind him.

A quiet meal with his kin was just what he needed after a long council session.


	42. Chapter Forty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, folks. A big thank you to everyone reading/commenting/leaving kudos. I appreciate it all.
> 
> Two familiar characters make an appearance in this chapter. 
> 
> As always, feel free to let me know what you think.

Arthur and Ninianne – not to mention the personal guard he’d chosen and a few servants that had volunteered to help with incoming luggage – waited on the steps leading into the castle less than a week later. A letter had arrived that morning informing him that Morgana would arrive at noon via teleportation and now Arthur was waiting, nervous and tense with discomfort. His frame tensed with the urge to hide in the castle. He wasn’t certain how he’d react to having Morgana around despite the olive branch he’d offered her, knowing she and Merlin had attacked each other more than once in the past. He wasn’t certain how to handle someone he knew was responsible for the vast number of injuries that once decorated his lover, who’d been forced to engage with her at the border, his steel and magic clashing with hers in an explosion of controlled violence. The crystal hanging from his neck pulsed in response to his mounting agitation and Arthur hastened to touch it with a soothing finger, hardening his will into a commanding force that encouraged the magic to ebb away, to fall dormant again.

He didn’t need magic to protect him from his own inner turmoil.

He didn’t need magic to protect him from Morgana.

He was more than capable of protecting himself.

His spine straightened and his shoulders squared while Arthur stamped an internal foot down upon his concerns and his lingering insecurities and shoved them under lock and key, an odd sense of satisfaction rippling through him.

Ninianne shifted beside him.

Arthur glanced down at her, noticing the tense manner in which she held herself as the wait for her future mentor continued. He rested a gentle and firm hand on her small and delicate shoulder, his mouth curling around an affectionate smile when Ninianne glanced up at him. She leaned into his side and took the comfort and support he offered her, the tension in her frame easing, her chest heaving a sigh. His hand slid around to the other shoulder and squeezed with gentle care.

It was hard to believe how much she’d grown since their flight from Camelot and yet the evidence was there for all to see: Ninianne was taller now, her face starting to lose the softness of childhood. Bits of her mother, and her elder brother, were growing more apparent and yet she retained the strong likeness to Sir Lamorak. It would take years for her features to finish settling, Arthur knew, and part of him wondered which parts would be more prominent then. Not that it mattered much. Ninianne was perfect regardless.

Arthur continued to support his ward until a swirling vortex of wind materialised in the grass in front of them and buffeted them ferociously, slowing to reveal Morgana Pendragon and her penetrating stare. A green velvet cloak draped over her pale shoulders handsomely, almost concealing the white gown that spoke of her station as sister to the Queen of Essetir. Her raven waves were swept back from her face and pinned in place with an aigrette that allowed them to cascade over her shoulder, pretty, and distracting.

Another woman accompanied his sister, one he didn’t recognise in the least. She appeared far less confident and was much shorter, but her tresses were almost as dark. She wasn’t dressed quite as well as Morgana and Arthur recognised the servile stance from his own years as manservant to the Crown Prince of Camelot and Mercia. What looked like two miniature trunks were suspended from the belt strapped around her small waist and Arthur realised that constituted their luggage – as soon as he realised the presence of such a large number of servants was unnecessary, Arthur disbanded them with a quick gesture he’d learned during the long months since he’d accepted his duty, but kept two servants on hand as a precaution. Arthur continued to take note of the woman serving his sister. A band of black leather enveloped her pale throat and several runes from the Old Religion glowed gold along the length of it. Arthur recognised a few of them: powerful runes that represented stability, focus and control. A frisson of unease ran through Arthur, his gaze darting from the collar to his sister, who arched an eyebrow and dared him to comment without ever uttering a word.

Arthur cleared his throat instead and stepped forward in a show of diplomacy, his hand out in offer, announcing, “Cornwall and I welcome you. I’m afraid Her Majesty wasn’t feeling well and extends her apologies for not welcoming you herself. She hopes to recover in time for the feast this evening.”

“I hope it isn’t catching,” Morgana answered as she clasped his forearm firmly, her chin raised with the same confidence that kept his own high and her stance a demonstration of her own sense of authority, one equal to his. “Thank you for the invite and the warm welcome. I’ve wanted to visit for some time.”

Arthur faltered for a moment as his sister stared at him and then beckoned Ninianne closer, resting a supportive hand upon her shoulder and smiling, asking, “Do you remember Ninianne?”

“How could I forget? Clever young ladies never fail to leave an impression.” Morgana turned her attention upon Ninianne and smiled warmly, her challenging expression fading into one of kind enthusiasm. She offered her hand at once. “You must be the young witch Arthur wrote to me about.”

“Yes.” Ninianne glanced up at Arthur, hesitant and unsure. He gave her an encouraging nod and Ninianne accepted the offer, gripping a fine and strong forearm in return without complaint. A tentative smile curled her mouth. “Thank you so much for coming; it must have been a hard decision to make after encountering Merlin on the battlefield so often.”

“Not really,” Morgana answered quietly, her smile dimming, reclaiming her hand after a moment and straightening, reaching her full height. “I might have considered your brother an enemy, but I still respect him as a sorcerer, Ninianne. Just as I respect you as a witch. Anyway, your brother and I reached a truce the last time we encountered each other.”

“I was under the impression that the truce was temporary,” Arthur interjected calmly, ignoring the urge to snort in disdainful amusement as he gestured for Morgana and Ninianne to precede him into the castle. He glanced at the woman that had accompanied his sister, asking quietly, “May I know your name?”

“Freya.”

“What an interesting name.” Arthur offered a warm smile. “Come along, Freya.”

Dark eyes awash with surprise rested on him for a long moment and then Freya darted past him as she hastened after the noblewomen. She gave him a wide berth. A second wave of unease washed through Arthur, who quickened his stride to catch up with his sister, who was now saying, “I haven’t had the chance to demolish the truce yet. It still remains in place.”

“You haven’t had the chance? I find that hard to believe. Surely, someone with as much magic as you must be breezing through their duties compared to the rest of us. I’d have thought you’d jump at the chance to take action now that Merlin has become almost defenceless.”

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.” Morgana threw a confused and somewhat unnerved glance in his direction. “Merlin is the most powerful mage I’ve ever encountered.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know what happened.” Arthur gave her a sharp look. His heart thumped in his chest and his throat threatened to constrict as his mind almost jumped to that agonising memory, when Merlin had been leeched of his magic and that beautiful spark of life he’d fallen so hard for. “You knew enough to feel the need to fetch this crystal for me.”

“Knowing about an occurrence or two in your life doesn’t mean I’m omniscient. I can’t foresee each moment of your existence. I’m taken aback just as often as you are!” The stare Morgana threw back at him was just as sharp as his and underscored with more than a scrap of hurt. “I thought we were starting from scratch?”

“We are.” Arthur looked away, his jaw clenching. He counted time as he drew in a calming breath and held it in his chest before releasing it slowly, feeling his agitation leave him with his breath. Confidence flooded the spots where his nerves and agitation had chewed through him. “I apologise for antagonising you. However, Merlin is a sensitive subject for me and talking about him isn’t easy, Morgana.”

“Okay,” Morgana answered slowly, her penetrating stare still locked on Arthur, but her expression softened somewhat. She touched his arm. “I can understand that: he means a lot to you. But I still don’t know what you were talking about.”

“We’ll discuss the matter later,” said Arthur, directing his gaze further along the corridor instead of looking at his sister, who removed her hand at once. Her heels clicked against the stone with somewhat diminished confidence. “I’d rather talk about something else right now. Have you eaten yet? Shall I have lunch prepared and brought to your rooms?”

“I _am_ rather hungry, now that you mention it.” Morgana nodded her agreement and her hand made an aborted move towards the flat of her stomach before falling back to her side. She smiled when Arthur sent the two servants darting back the other way, his command quick and confident where it used to be hesitant and fumbling. His inexperience used to make such instances awkward and stressful as the serving staff stared at him with mild expectation. But he’d started growing accustomed to handing out commands since he’d accepted his position as Crown Prince of Cornwall. His increased confidence made it even easier now despite the tremulous nerves that still underscored his life. “I suppose you know all the fundamental aspects of using magic after your past experiences.”

Arthur hummed noncommittally, his frame tensing, unable to stop himself from recalling the occasions he’d spent caring for Merlin – ensuring he ate enough and rested enough to compensate for the amount of magic coursing through his body, Merlin channelling his power as often as possible to release the tension such an intense build up could cause. No one wanted that immense power to explode from disuse. His eyes drifted closed for a moment and then snapped back open as Arthur allowed his tension to ebb away, counting time in his head to calm himself down.

“Is your sister well?”

“Better than ever,” Morgana answered easily, her tone warm with surprise. Arthur could almost hear the smile growing in her voice and felt a spark of...something, though he wasn’t quite sure what it was. It might have been satisfaction. But it could have been another emotion with just as much ease. “Morgause took to ruling like a duck to water, and I have a niece or nephew on the way, and we’re excited. Not that you could tell when looking at her, of course. I know how she feels because I’ve known her forever, but Morgause remains as cool and collected as ever, and her advisors never know whether her remarks are serious or sarcastic. It provides me with endless entertainment.”

Arthur couldn’t help smiling, the anecdote humorous enough to make him forget his own agitation. He and Morgana continued to make such conversation until the door to her chambers loomed and Arthur handed her the key, standing back politely, allowing Morgana and her maidservant to step across the threshold and take stock. Ninianne waited beside him until Morgana beckoned them through the doorway, smiling, her expression warm and welcoming, content.

“This view is just incredible.” Morgana stepped out onto the balcony, her bearing regal as the breeze snagged a tendril of hair, tugging with gentle force. Arthur and Ninianne joined her at once. Freya lingered in the main chamber, however, and started removing the trunks from her belt. “It looks so peaceful out there.”

“Don’t underestimate her,” Arthur cautioned as he gazed out at the Great Sea of Meredor, remembering one of his numerous afternoons on the water, how the atmosphere had gone from relaxed to tense with the shift of a breeze as Captain Morien had straightened and ordered him to head for shore even as he’d scrambled for the second pair of oars. “The ocean takes no prisoners when her rage comes rolling in.”

Looking back on that memory, Arthur remembered the ease with which he’d followed the command. He hadn’t questioned it for an instant. He’d steered straight for the sand in the distance instead. He and Captain Morien had pulled the faering ashore moments before the storm came rolling, her winds raging and howling, and the waves turning wild and aggressive.

Arthur had stood in the sand for a moment as the deepening water rushed past him and then almost lost his balance when that powerful torrent swept away, swept back out to sea and almost dragged him with it. That was the moment he’d started running, Captain Morien leading the way, agile despite his age. He and the captain had been battered with wind and rain until his mentor had hauled Arthur through the door of his own house – it had been far too dangerous to make the familiar trek up to the castle after exhausting themselves just getting as far as the town. Hearing the storm start raging even louder, the pair had scrambled to lock the shutters in place and had retreated as the window panes started rattling, reacting to the wildness of the sea far below.

Captain Morien had been a gruff host and yet still welcoming, getting a fire started as quick as possible and inviting Arthur to strip down and let his clothes dry, and Arthur had welcomed the opportunity, his nervous embarrassment having little effect compared to how his wet clothes had chafed against his sensitive skin. He’d peeled his clothes off as soon as Captain Morien turned away, allowing him a moment of privacy, fetching him a blanket in the process. His clothes would never have accommodated Arthur, who’d known a blanket was far better than nothing. He’d been grateful for the blanket and even more so for the stew Captain Morien had offered him once it had warmed in front of the fire. It had been a quiet supper, neither of them quite looking at the other, and their silence was broken only when something thumped against the side of the house and the pair had shared a nervous laugh even as Arthur and Captain Morien had stared at the same spot.

“Must have been a stone or something,” the captain had said gruffly, returning his attention to the steaming bowl in his grasp. He’d shoved another spoonful into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully, staring, gaze a little unfocused until his head had snapped up and he’d looked at Arthur. “I hope this doesn’t scare you off.”

“Not a chance.” Arthur had smiled at his mentor, but his heart had been thumping in his throat after the fright. His shoulders had tightened with tension. “It’ll take more than a storm to scare me off.”

Captain Morien had stared at Arthur, his gaze long and searching, but then he’d nodded and returned his attention to his supper.

Merewald had come looking for him the next morning, pale and shaking, and looking as though she hadn’t slept at all. The blatant relief on her face when Arthur, wearing clothes that were stiff with salt and dry, had stepped outside had robbed him of breath. She’d crushed him in an embrace in front of the whole town – all of whom had come outside to assess the damage left after the storm. Fortunately, most of them had looked away, giving the Queen a moment to collect herself as she’d run her hands over him just to reassure herself that he wasn’t harmed.

“Hey,” Arthur had said gently, gripping her shoulders and squeezing firmly, “I’m okay, you know. I was in good hands. He’d never have let something happen to me.”

“I know,” Merewald had muttered at once. She’d still been shaking as she spoke to him quietly; her eyes had watered before she’d ripped her gaze away, her voice cracking down the middle. Her hands had tightened where she’d gripped his arms. “But you didn’t come home and I knew you’d been out on the water when the storm rolled in. I thought I’d lost you.”

Now, looking out across the water, Arthur smiled and then glanced at his sister, who looked right back at him. Her own smile brightened. Hope bloomed across her face. Arthur looked away, unsure what to feel or what to say, but aware that he needed to be a guiding force in their renewed relationship.

He’d been the one to suggest it after all.

“We can take this slowly,” Morgana suggested after a pause. Hesitance underscored her voice. “I know we aren’t going to get along all the time. Who does? We’re going to hit rough patches from time to time. I’m expecting that.”

“I’d appreciate that.” Arthur glanced at her again.  He offered a hesitant smile. “You can join me for training in the morning, if you’d like. I’m assuming you brought your sword with you.”

“I’m never unarmed: fortune favours the prepared.” The amusement curling her mouth softened the glint of seriousness in her eyes. “As for joining you in the morning, it would be a pleasure. I haven’t faced a new sparring partner in a while. It’ll be a nice change!”

Arthur and Morgana continued conversing lightly, and Ninianne listened intently, her attention flicking from one to the other of them as the pair navigated these safe waters together. The two of them might have continued like that indefinitely, but for the knock on the door, signalling the arrival of lunch.

Freya went to the door immediately, opened it and stepped aside for the servants sweeping across the threshold. Arthur vacated the balcony, thanked Freya for opening the door, and thanked the serving staff for bringing lunch to them. Morgana and Ninianne followed in his wake and Arthur waved the servants away, and then gestured for the three of them to take a seat. A troubled frown furrowed his brow when Freya hesitated before taking a seat at the dining table. His frown eased a little when Morgana touched her arm gently, her expression warm and kind when Freya looked at her, uncertain.

“I’m sorry, Sire,” Freya murmured a moment later, her gaze flicking over to Arthur and then away, and her frame remaining somewhat stiff. The runes for focus and control glowed brighter for a moment and then died down to their original glow. “I’m...not comfortable...around new people and I’m still adjusting to this position.”

“I know the feeling,” Arthur answered kindly, his expression softening as he reached for the ewer, offering her wine with a single gesture. Freya shook her head and looked down at her lap for a moment. He asked the same silent question of his sister, who acquiesced without hesitation. Arthur returned his attention to Freya once he’d finished pouring wine for himself and Morgana and continued gently, his voice quiet. His gaze grew serious in its compassion. “I used to be a manservant before I came here. I know well what it feels like to be overwhelmed with new faces or to be uncertain whether nobles are going to be pleasant to deal with. I’ve met a few who weren’t. You and your mistress are guests here and your wellbeing has become our responsibility; I hope you’ll feel comfortable coming to me should you have concerns regarding the nobles here or even other household staff. I’ll sort them out. No one should have to deal with that sort of aggression alone.”

Her eyes grew wet in an instant.

Arthur felt his gut twist at the sight of those unshed tears and he wanted to look away, knowing the understanding in his own eyes must have been blatant. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t look away. He needed to make sure the woman knew there was someone to turn to when things were frightening, no matter who frightened her, especially after he’d seen her blatant lack of confidence and her immediate distrust of him. Her distrust could have been directed at his position – but it was difficult to tell. Either way, it was an important matter to discuss. It was a matter he made sure to raise with all of the visiting serving staff that crossed the threshold at the behest of their employer, who might not have paused to even think of such things.

Some visitors to Cornwall never paused to consider the privilege of their position and the various measures in place to protect them. Servants were never as fortunate – not even in a realm as progressive as Cornwall. A large number of people still considered the word of a servant worth less than nothing compared to that of a noble and it wreaked havoc in judicial hearings that occurred in strongholds across the realm – matters taken to have before the capital could be reached. It was at the top of the list of things he’d change once he became King.

“I’ll remember that.” Freya looked down and away, blinking, her tears disappearing behind a mask of politeness. “Thank you.”

“I just want you to feel safe here.” Arthur sipped his wine and smiled in an effort to break the tension he’d created with his uncomfortable line of conversation. He leaned forward then in interest. “Can I ask you something?”

Freya looked at him and said nothing, but a flicker of knowledge burned in her dark eyes before extinguishing, vanishing without a trace. He wouldn’t have known had he been looking elsewhere. Arthur would have let the matter rest had Freya not proceeded to nod her head in a show of granting permission.

“Do you mind telling me what that collar is for?” Morgana stiffened opposite him as Freya stared at Arthur, all of her runes glowing brighter as the quiet and nervous woman swallowed. Arthur hastened to say, “Obviously, you don’t have to answer, but I was just curious. I never meant to make either of you uncomfortable.”

“It helps me.” Freya glanced at Morgana and then back at Arthur, her frame tensing even further. She took a breath before speaking again. “Not all kinds of magic are a gift and this collar helps me keep control of when and how that magic is used.”

Arthur accepted the explanation easily, his discomfort and concern easing, but he avoided looking at Morgana. He could almost feel the sharp and dangerous nature of her stare as he raised his goblet and took a sip of wine. He focused on his lunch.

He unveiled his lunch with a flourish and sighed happily, the scent of herbs and butter and mussels carried on the steam wafting into his face. It had taken him some time to grow accustomed to seafood. Now, however, Arthur could eat seafood with as much ease as when he ate red meat or poultry, all of which were delicious when prepared right. Arthur dived into the dish at once. He hummed in appreciation around each mouthful. He’d come to love mussels during his time in Cornwall and often found himself licking his lips after eating, lapping up even the faintest residue left behind.

Lunch passed quietly, but for the scrape of their cutlery, and Arthur couldn’t help feeling a twinge of discomfort in his gut. He wasn’t used to dining in silence when he had company, but he wasn’t sure how to break it after angering Morgana with his line of questioning, though he’d felt it important to ask.

Arthur and his dearest kin knew how insidious magic could be. His aunt had learned firsthand. He’d learned of numerous spells that could subvert willpower, leaving people susceptible to the wielder or to someone in control of a token from said wielder, and the thought of someone under the influence of such magic sent a shiver of disgust down his spine. He couldn’t understand how moral practitioners could leave such spells accessible to the wicked. He couldn’t understand how such spells weren’t yet eradicated from both existence and the depth of their knowledge. Arthur had needed to question the purpose of the collar as a result. It wasn’t that he’d suspected his sister of manipulating the woman with magic...but seeing the rune for control had unsettled Arthur immensely, who remembered well the crushing weight of being under the thumb of a man who’d beat him black and blue for less than a glimmer of insolence.

Leaning back in his chair, full and feeling a little heavy, Arthur ran a thumb over the inside of his wrist. Flashes of memories ricocheted across his mind. The magic suspended from his neck gave an aggressive pulse as a flash of rage and remembered terror shot through him in equal measure. Arthur reached up and covered the crystal with a quelling hand: the magic died back down immediately, but he could still feel a dull throb of aggression against his palm.

“I still don’t understand how that works.” Her comment pulled his attention in her direction. Morgana gazed at him curiously, her attention fastened upon the hand covering the crystal. “You don’t have magic.”

“No.” Arthur looked away, swallowing, knowing where this conversation was heading, and chose to look at Ninianne instead. “You can start your lessons tomorrow. I just wanted to refresh your memory, Ninianne.”

Nodding, Ninianne rose from her chair and made for the door. Arthur blinked in surprise when Morgana sent Freya darting after her, asking her to escort the young witch wherever she needed to go.

“Aren’t you worried she’ll get lost on the route back?”

“She’ll find her way,” Morgana answered confidently, her eyes glittering with secrecy, but Arthur could discern no spark of a threat. She pushed her plate aside and leaned an elbow on the table while resting her chin against her palm. “I want to know how that crystal works.”

“There isn’t much to tell. His magic just likes me.”

His cheeks warmed.

Arthur managed to refrain from biting his lip as he remembered that magic pinning him against the mattress the previous evening, how it had pleasured him until he’d started sobbing, arching and writhing, claiming the phantom touch was too much and yet not enough as his wrists were bound to the pillows and his thighs spread wider, his knees pushed closer to his chest to put him on display. He remembered how that familiar wet heat had found his taint and despoiled him as Merlin had once despoiled him. How the magic had filled him after he’d reached the pinnacle of his pleasure for the second time – when he was still shaking, shuddering, and his hands still clenching and unclenching over and over, his face wet with tears after reaching his climax.

His mouth had been swollen from biting, Arthur doing his best to keep the sounds of his pleasure quiet after overhearing rumours that he’d taken a lover to his bed at last. But he’d never been less than vocal with Merlin and that was never going to change. The familiar press of what felt like hardened flesh had been both torturous and exquisite. He’d been almost too sensitive. But he’d begged to be taken harder, harder, harder, and the magic had complied immediately, eagerly, its force almost bruising.

He’d lost himself to that pleasure.

Arthur shifted in his chair, his manhood twitching, wishing he could still feel the evidence of that strange lovemaking, but the magic had healed his abused and swollen taint soon after he’d emerged from the overwhelming glow that settled over him in the wake of their lovemaking.

That euphoric glow was his favourite part.

“I think the connection I share with Merlin has something to do with it. Obviously, I’ll never know for certain...but some vague idea is better than nothing, I suppose.”

“Arthur, forgive me for the change of subject matter, but you’re as flushed as a berry,” Morgana said teasingly, her eyes sparkling with laughter. “Clearly, his magic must like you a great deal. I’m not sure I want to know what you’ve been thinking about!”

His face growing even hotter, Arthur looked away, struggling to take a long mouthful of his wine as his throat constricted. He wanted to flee back to his own chambers and hide his face in the pillows. Merlin and his magic were two of the few things that could dislodge the masks Arthur developed to conceal the emotions simmering beneath the surface. It was a miracle that King Bayard hadn’t been convinced that he and Merlin had been lovemaking right under his damned nose the whole time. It was a miracle that Arthur hadn’t been executed within the first year of serving his former master, whose presence alone could make him light up from somewhere deep inside him – it must have been his soul reacting to their connection. There had been something about Merlin from the beginning, though he hadn’t been able to put his finger on it. He hadn’t been able to name it. It had taken some time before he’d even acknowledged that he was attracted to Merlin in the first place and to consider something deeper would have been dangerous. But Arthur knew what that connection was now and he would never forget how deep Merlin had buried himself within him.

“I’d rather not be teased about this. I’ve told you that Merlin is a sensitive subject for me. His magic is included under that banner.” Arthur set down his goblet of wine and looked at his sister once his humiliation faded away, his gaze sharp and reprimanding, his jaw clenched tight. “I don’t have to listen to you mocking me. I can walk out that door and not come back: the choice is yours.”

“But I never meant the remark to be cruel!” Surprise flickered over pale features as Morgana leaned back in her chair. “Surely, you know that?”

“I know no such thing, Morgana.” His gaze grew as hard as his voice. “I know nothing but your name and that you have magic. I don’t know who you are. I don’t know how far you’d take a damned joke and I don’t want to – not when it comes to me or Merlin and his magic. I’ve been the butt of enough jokes to last a lifetime.”

“Okay,” Morgana answered quietly, and somewhat miserably, searching his face for a long moment before her shoulders slumped in defeat. Her next few words came amid several contemplative pauses that sounded painful even to Arthur, who leaned back in his chair, a sliver of regret forming inside him. “I’ll avoid teasing...as much as I’m able...but I’m not sure I’ll succeed in that endeavour. Just so you’re warned. I’ve grown up teasing the people I care about. But I’ll try, Arthur, for you.”

“Then I’ll ask for nothing more.” His voice gentled then. His expression softened somewhat. Arthur reached across the table and captured her hand in a sure grip. He squeezed in an almost comforting manner, a sad smile curling across his mouth. “I know I don’t seem pleasant right now and I’m sorry, but I’ve struggled to come to the point where I can take a stand again and I’m still struggling, though I’m sure having a piece of Merlin with me will help things along. Your understanding is all I seek.”

“You have it.” Morgana squeezed his hand in return. Her second hand came to cover his and it felt warm against his skin. “Arthur, brother, I want to get to know you. I want to earn that right as much as I’m able.”

“I’d like that.” His smile grew brighter, though a measure of hesitance flickered through Arthur, who looked down at their joined hands in growing wonder. He’d grown up thinking he was the last Pendragon and learning otherwise had been so much more than staggering, but to have Morgana here with him now was even more so – and not just because of her past actions. “Is there anything you’d like to know now?”

“I’d like to know what happened in Camelot. I’d like to know what happened to Merlin.”


	43. Chapter Forty-Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so stressed lately, but another chapter is ready, folks!
> 
> Warning: This chapter contains heavy themes.
> 
> As always, feel free to let me know what you think.

Two months later, Arthur and Hecate returned from an afternoon flight to find Morgana waiting, having changed out of her clothes for training and into an elegant gown of purple silk that made her skin glow. Her hair was swept back into a neat braid once more – it had become bedraggled during training, their feet quick and their movements almost blurring with the speed of motion. He’d trained with Morgana each morning since she’d arrived in Cornwall and Merewald or Sir Percival had pointed out the minor flaws in his footwork and positioning while watching, their gazes sharp and attentive. His sister was a challenging opponent. She was quick to gloat and even quicker to knock him on his arse – but that fact just served to make him clench his jaw and rise from the ground with even more determination to wipe the floor with her. He’d improved a great deal since he and Morgana had started sparring with each other, which both of his mentors had been delighted to see.

“I thought you’d be with Ninianne?” Arthur didn’t bother to conceal his surprise. He dismounted and ran a proud hand over raven feathers while Hecate trilled in pleasure and delight. Arthur reached for the reins again and led his hippogriff away, expecting Morgana to follow in his wake. She didn’t disappoint him in the least. “Shouldn’t you be overseeing her training?”

“I was until a moment ago.” Morgana kept pace with him as Arthur headed for the paddock in the distance. A number of hippogriffs grazed placidly, heads bowed towards the grass at their feet. He paid close attention to his sister as he admired the winged creatures from a distance. “But she dozed off while we were taking a break and she had another vision. We’ve spoken about what happened in it and how the vision felt compared to the sensations she’d felt during the last one. Arthur, I don’t think either of her visions was prophetic. Seers feel something when we dream and that feeling is often indicative of how our powers are manifesting. I’m a prophetess and I feel as though I’m swimming, struggling against the current rushing past me. Osgifu has visions of paths foregone and feels trapped within a mirror, hands pressed against the glass as the alternative present unfolds before her eyes. She told me about her dreams once. She has seen a world where our father was alive and well and you were condescending, cruel and aggressive to those beneath you until some bumbling idiot came along and made you reconsider your stance. Her visions are a twisted reflection of the lives we lead now!”

Arthur flinched at the notion of such an existence and quickened his pace in an attempt to get away, unwilling to hear about how much his father would have affected his life and his view of the world – his view of Merlin and magic and the Old Religion.

His sister, however, was relentless and lunged in front of him to cease his momentum with both hands and a combination of strength and magic. Her eyes were sad and imploring, but firm all the same. 

“Ninianne didn’t feel like that or even something similar,” said his sister, who shifted to meet his gaze no matter where Arthur looked. He couldn’t escape the imminent announcement about to fall from her lips. “Your ward claimed that she’d felt like a pillar of sand – like a breeze might blow her away, like she’d crumble at the first touch. Don’t you think that sounds like some piece of ancient history, something unchangeable?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His jaw clenched obstinately, but his heart jumped into his throat and lodged there as soon as the lie escaped him. His heart tried to punch a hole through his throat as it began pounding, fearful and frantic. A cold sweat broke out on his skin. He couldn’t bear the understanding, compassionate stare directed at him. Arthur wrenched himself away, and kept walking, his ears ringing, the world spinning around him as her words echoed inside his head over and over, deafening.

Hecate gave an alarmed shriek.

Morgana was beside him before his knees buckled. She huffed out a strained breath as she caught Arthur, slowing his descent and easing him to the grass as his lungs ceased working, his throat constricting around his pounding heart.

“I’m sorry,” Morgana whispered as Arthur struggled to get his lungs and throat working, struggled to push her voice out of his head and count time until he could breathe again. Her hand felt cool against his face as Morgana made him look at her, made him struggle to focus on her face as she kept talking, her voice growing louder and more forceful with each unwelcome word spoken. “I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear, Arthur, but you need to hear it. You know what her gift is. You knew it before you summoned me here and you’d hoped I’d tell you otherwise. But I can’t do that. I can’t tell you her dreams are prophetic because she isn’t a prophetess! Her visions are historic! You can’t affect them because these events have happened already, have happened before you ever knew about them. You can’t control them. You can’t change the past.”

Gripping at her tightly, his knuckles whitening, Arthur managed to get his lungs and throat working long enough for him to say, “He isn’t dead! I would know!”

“I never said he was.” Morgana spoke calmly, her own grip tightening, ensuring Arthur remained focused on that moment and not the fears coursing through him in thick and uncontrollable waves. “I said Merlin cut himself long before you knew about it. That doesn’t mean he died. I’m sure you _would_ know had his heart ceased beating, Arthur, given your powerful and profound connection to him. Merlin must still be alive. You should take heart in that. Okay?”

Arthur shook his head sharply, managing to draw in another agonising breath as he pulled himself away, forced himself to his feet as another wave of dizziness crashed over him. His arm draped around a strong neck as Hecate shoved her concerned face closer, her smooth beak rubbing against his face for a moment. But Arthur refused to linger. He used Hecate as a crutch as he forced himself along her side until he reached the saddle. Arthur forced himself to raise one foot and then planted it in the nearest stirrup before heaving himself up and over, but misjudged the distance as the world spun around Arthur, who toppled over the other side in an instant.

A pained grunt escaped him as Arthur hit the ground: the wrist now trapped under him throbbed.

Fortunately, his wrist wasn’t broken from the fall – he’d have known the moment it happened. One never forgot the sickening crunch of bones snapping, and Arthur was more familiar with that sound than even some of the more experienced Knights serving under him and his aunt. Arthur grimaced as he put weight on his wrist and pushed himself up. He forced himself back to his feet as the world wavered out of focus. Breathing was becoming easier now, slowly and reluctantly, but Arthur still had some distance to go before he was functioning at his best.

“What are you doing?!” Morgana threw herself in the way, her face wild with emotion as she attempted to prevent him from getting back into the saddle again. Her magic crackled in reaction to her emotions. “Arthur, you can’t even stand on your own right now!”

“That doesn’t matter,” Arthur snapped as the powerful magic dangling from his neck rose in answer and enveloped him in a protective embrace that forced Morgana away, an embrace that soon formed a wall of immense power around him. It expanded with force and sent Morgana stumbling backwards until she tripped over her gown and fell to the grass. “Don’t you understand? I have to go! I have to get him back! I can’t just sit here and do nothing now that I know it wasn’t just a dream. That it wasn’t some vision of the future that I could prevent. I can’t pretend that Merlin doesn’t need help!”

“Going there now will accomplish nothing but to get you killed – perhaps both of you will be killed in the endeavour, if you even manage to reach him at all. You’ll be outnumbered and outmatched! Not to mention the fact that you’re almost incapacitated with emotion right now!” His sister hastened to her feet despite the nuisance her gown proved to be as it tried to trip Morgana again. She stopped him from reaching the saddle once more. Her voice lost the wild notes and grew imploring, her expression soft and beseeching. “Arthur, you’ve been doing so well. Please...please don’t throw your progress aside for the sake of something you can’t change.”

“Don’t. Please don’t do that. Don’t turn that against me.” Arthur felt his voice cracking, tearing down the middle. It burned in his throat and rasped on his tongue. “Merlin needs me –”

“And you’ll be able to help him when you’re ready, Arthur. But you have to help yourself first and you’re still in the process of doing that. Merlin will understand!”

“But I –”

“Just take a moment and think about it! I know you’ve been improving, Arthur, but you still haven’t managed to land a hit on me – even with all your training! Bayard has years more experience than me. You’ve been training for a wet minute compared to him. Do you think he’d just let you walk out of his realm with Merlin in tow? Do you think he wouldn’t do his utmost to stop you the moment he heard of your arrival? You said Bayard was drunk the last time you fought each other and that he was still almost too great of a challenge to overcome. Imagine what his skill could be when sober! Do you want the people here going to war because you made a rash decision and got yourself killed in the process? Do you think your aunt would let your death slide? Don’t be stupid!”

Arthur choked on the words that threatened to escape and looked away, swallowing convulsively, his vision blurring. He looked down at the grass. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides and the action sent hot pulses of pain rippling up through his loose and tender wrist. Arthur dragged in one breath and then another, grieving, and struggling not to show it.

He’d let himself hope that vision had been something he could stop from happening at some point in the future. He’d let himself hope that it was something he could change.

But it wasn’t.

It wasn’t something he could ever change: the past was said and done and there was nothing Arthur could do about it. One tear slipped free as that acknowledgement and reluctant acceptance rippled through him and then another tear followed less than a moment later, and then Arthur was choking out a sharp gasp of stricken surprise as Morgana threw herself at him and almost knocked him over, her arms winding around him in a powerful grip. He stumbled back a step and managed to recover his balance before falling to the grass. Arthur hadn’t expected the magic to let Morgana through to him again after it reacted to hers – never mind the crushing embrace that followed.

She’d never embraced him before.

He’d never let her.

His hand shook as Arthur raised it and touched raven tresses lightly, hesitant and uncertain. That was when he noticed the faint swelling, and the bruising, and discovered his wrist wasn’t just tender.

He was injured and he hadn’t noticed at all.

But he’d have noticed as soon as he’d tried to wield a sword against a Knight intent on beheading or impaling him before he reached the castle in the first place. He’d have noticed then and it would have been too late. He’d have died before he ever reached Merlin. He’d have been disarmed and impaled before he had a chance to switch to his somewhat weaker arm.

Arthur was quiet and compliant as Morgana led him away, his hippogriff following along obediently, and some distant part of him recognised that he was going into shock as the dizziness returned. His knees wobbled beneath him as the pair reached the paddock and Hecate trilled miserably, straining against the reins as the grooms pulled her away, her golden eyes sorrowful as she tried to reach him.

He managed to raise a quelling hand and mumble a farewell to his hippogriff. Hecate settled down reluctantly, but continued to watch him until Morgana wrapped her magic around him. Morgana whisked them both back to the castle amidst a swirling vortex of wind. His heart struggled to beat despite the exhilarating nature of such travel.

Now standing in the familiar infirmary, Arthur was relieved when the back of his weakened legs hit the edge of a comfortable bed. He sank down immediately, sweating, his skin growing cold and clammy, his eyes fastened upon the growing bruise spreading across his wrist in minute increments. He wouldn’t have noticed the changes at all were it not for his vast knowledge and experience with bruising flesh.

Morgana never left his side even as she shouted for the court physician.

Marian came bustling out of the private chamber, her handsome face lined with worry, and she was upon Arthur in an instant. Her questions went over his head as he stared down at his swelling wrist. Fortunately, Morgana was answering, her replies quick and sharp as Marian urged Arthur to lie down with gentle and firm hands. She shoved a few pillows under his ankles to elevate his feet. The heated blanket she draped over him was a balm against his chilled frame. Her hand brushed his hair back from his forehead gently, but respectfully, a tendril of her healing magic easing beneath his skin and Arthur looked up at Marian.

Dark eyes glowed silver for a moment on either side of her broad nose. A pair of pointed ears poked through thick and curling hair that seemed to absorb the sunlight sprawling across the infirmary.

He’d known Marian was from Avalon the moment he’d met her, but he’d never dared to ask what she was doing in Cornwall. Why she’d bother working as a healer for a bunch of mortals. Her business was her own and Marian would share it when it suited her – a fact that hadn’t pleased his adoptive father in the least.

Tom had blanched when he’d first met her, his eyes widening with outraged recognition. He’d stormed forward and demanded to know what she’d done with the sword she’d stolen from his forge when Arthur was young, and Marian had looked at him and chuckled before admitting, “The sword is somewhere safe and will remain so until necessary, blacksmith. That sword has a purpose. You’ll find out what that is at some point.”

Tom had spluttered in outraged disbelief as she’d continued working, her hands quick and efficient while she treated Arthur, who’d still been stiff and aching from the fight for his freedom from Camelot and Mercia. Not to mention scraped and cut and bruised from his altercation with King Bayard in that dungeon cell. Marian hadn’t used magic to heal him that first night in Cornwall. She’d treated him in the common way, her expression gentle and understanding when Arthur had flinched out of reach automatically, one of her numerous ointments stinging one of his various cuts. However, her calm and authoritative voice had encouraged him to settle back down easily, Arthur falling back on the urge to obey, to follow some command to keep his mind from sinking into that dark and threatening despair that hovered at the edges of his consciousness.

Marian had ensured that none of his wounds grew infected after the night he’d spent in the dungeon – a cesspit of disease or so the court physician had claimed in a disgusted voice. She’d then treated most of his stiff and aching muscles with a firm massage and the use of warming oils that almost had Arthur breaking down as he’d remembered receiving similar treatment from Merlin the previous winter.

She’d stopped as soon as the order escaped him on a ragged whisper and had given him a considering stare that made him look away, doing his best to conceal the heartbreak on his face.

Now, looking up at her, a small part of Arthur managed to wonder about that sword she’d stolen for a moment as Marian turned her attention to his injured wrist at last. She shook her head and clucked her tongue in scolding disapproval.

All thoughts of that stolen sword dissipated from his head.

Marian offered no commentary, however, and Arthur was grateful for the silence as she continued to treat him. But he flinched when she pressed ice wrapped in a thin cloth against his wrist. Arthur tried to twist away, a pained noise escaping him as the resultant chill from the ice sank deep inside him. A muttered spell tugged him back and pushed him down before he could escape the cold for too long.

“As much as you don’t like the feeling, this _will_ help you.” Marian offered him a small and sympathetic smile then. “It won’t be permanent. You’ll need to use ice for half an hour every three or four hours until the pain subsides. I have a tonic that you can take before bed tonight and tomorrow night: it’ll help with the inflammation. Make sure to elevate your wrist above your heart as often as possible. You’ll need to come back to me in a day or two for a short list of exercises – to make sure this wrist is working properly, Your Highness.”

Despondently, Arthur turned his face away, his head rolling slowly, his face pressing as close to the pillow beneath him as possible. He was tired of having to do exercises. He was tired of being injured. He was tired of needing someone to calm him down when his head got going, tired of feeling as though he wasn’t making as much progress as he should be. He was tired of feeling useless despite the various duties he had to perform – educating himself and training; gifting various establishments with his patronage to build a rapport with his future subjects and socialising with the nobility; witnessing and providing his opinion during petitions and perusing the material up for discussion at council sessions. It took all of his time and yet it no longer felt like enough.

He had to do something.

He just didn’t know what.

He wasn’t sure what he could do to make this feeling go away. It was a dark and sinking feeling, and felt so much like the despair that had kept him in bed and isolated when Arthur first arrived in Cornwall. Just the thought of that despair sent a pulse of terrified desperation shooting through him. Swallowing, Arthur snatched the ice from Marian and forced himself out of bed despite knowing that he was still recovering, from both his attack of emotion and the shock of an unexpected injury. Arthur fled the infirmary, unwilling to return to that debilitating state that had almost ruined him and the relationships he cherished so much. He ignored Morgana. He ignored the call of his name and the rapid steps following in his wake.

Arthur went to the first place he could think of: to the Druid settlement further up the cliffs. He never even had to ask before one of them pointed him in the right direction and Arthur found himself stumbling into an unfamiliar tent to find a familiar face waiting, an unsurprised expression dancing across her wizened features. He knew then that Ansgar must have felt the vibrations in the balance when Emrys’ magic reacted in opposition to Morgana and hers. Ansgar patted the blanket spread out across the grass in a welcoming manner, her expression knowing and understanding, and an immediate surge of comfort and relief rippled through him at the sight of his healer. A welcome burst of warm and familiar magic kept Arthur stable as he got down on his knees first and then down onto his back. The magical embrace ensured his injured wrist wasn’t jostled as he kept the ice pressed against the numbing limb.

Ansgar said nothing, but watched him settle against the blanket for a long moment before returning to her weaving, her hands quick and efficient. Usually, she never said a word whenever Arthur arrived for a session with her, allowing him to relax as he listened to the distant sound of the waves and feel the tension bleed away; it gave him a chance to string words together until he could express what was bothering him.

“If you feel like you need to do something, you should do something, Your Highness.” Ansgar spoke quietly, unhurriedly, her attention fixed on the netting, but her expression was kind when Arthur managed to look at her. “It doesn’t need to be big and dramatic to make a difference to someone. Sometimes a kind word is enough. Have you considered visiting other parts of the realm when you can and seeing where you might be of assistance to your people? Or going on small missions with your Knights after someone petitions for help? There are endless avenues for you to pursue when you feel like you aren’t doing enough.”

“I’m not sure I can do that.” A knot of discomfort formed in his stomach. He avoided looking at Ansgar, choosing instead to gaze up at the fabric stretching overhead. “The Queen hasn’t asked me to take part in those missions.”

“Nor have you volunteered your services.” Ansgar chuckled and paused in her weaving, looking down at him with a faint knowing glint in her eye. “Don’t pretend the thought of going too far from Tintagel Castle doesn’t make you uncomfortable. I’m not stupid. I can see the tension just the thought of leaving the castle has instilled in you. You’ve suffered a great deal in the past and such fear is more than understandable now that you’ve found somewhere safe at last.” Her expression softened further. “However, you and I both know you broke through that fear and discomfort because you wanted to help Emrys earlier, Sire. You’re capable of breaking through it again. You just need to believe in yourself.”

Arthur snorted and rolled his head away, staring in the direction of the unseen ocean and mumbling, “Such belief seems counterproductive when experienced people like Morgana don’t believe in me. Even Gwen was surprised when I told her I’d be going to the tournament in Wessex this summer and she claims to believe in me as often as I doubt myself. The Queen doesn’t expect me to win at all.”

“Would you?”

“Would I win? I don’t know.”

“You misunderstand me.” Arthur looked at Ansgar, who was directing an almost fond smile at him now. “Just consider the scenario for a moment. Imagine you were the King, and you’ve had decades of experience with fighting, and someone else was in your position now and intended to participate in a tournament. Would you expect them to win against an assemblage of hardened warriors? Her expectations aren’t designed to hurt you. She means to be honest with you. It doesn’t mean she doesn’t believe you capable of defending yourself or even holding your own against a number of those warriors. But all of them? I can’t blame her for feeling doubtful. I’ve watched more than a few tournaments in the past and the aggression is gruelling, Sire. I’ve treated some of the people who participate in them. It wasn’t pleasant.”

Arthur closed his eyes and remembered just how unpleasant it could be. He remembered one of the few times he’d witnessed Merlin holding himself together until he’d disappeared into his pavilion after the last match of a tournament held in Camelot.

He remembered how Merlin had almost collapsed into his waiting arms as soon as the flaps of the tent had fallen closed and let out an agonized groan as he’d leaned against Arthur completely, trusting him to remove the armour and gambeson and other garments with as little help from Merlin as possible. He’d seen the collection of blackening and purpling bruises spreading across his slender and muscled frame once he’d stripped Merlin down to nothing – terrible bruises that made him look so small and tender and fragile. He’d heard Merlin bite back the pained noises that threatened to escape as Arthur had scooped him up into his arms and carried him to the steaming bathtub he’d made sure to have waiting, regardless of whether Merlin had defeated the last opponent or not.

Arthur remembered the moment Merlin had nuzzled his face without thinking, or hesitating, just for one breathtaking instance that had sent his heart pounding. His heart had done its best to burst out of his chest. His eyes had flicked over to the entrance of the tent fearfully; he’d been terrified that King Bayard would burst through the entrance to congratulate Merlin on his victory, terrified that the pair of them would be discovered in that compromising position. His arms had tightened around Merlin without meaning to and Merlin had groaned into his ear, the sound low and pained and yet still arousing, the vibrations rippling down his sensitive skin and settling between his thighs until his length started straining against the laces of his trousers.

But he’d ignored that strong surge of arousal and had eased his master down into the tub of steaming water, earning a sharp hiss and yet another groan as the water had washed over tender bruises and aching muscles. Merlin had slumped in the bathtub and rested his exhausted head against the cloth cushioning the rim as Arthur had forgotten himself and let his fingertip graze the curve of one large and precious ear. He’d let his thumb graze a sharp cheekbone. Merlin had rolled his head to look at Arthur, and his gaze had been so adoring, so soft and warm and loving, and Arthur had stood frozen for a long and painful moment before turning to take care of the abandoned armour. His hands had shaken so much that he couldn’t even polish the armour in his lap.

“Arthur, are you alright over there?”

“I’m fine.” Arthur had thrown a glance over his shoulder, struggling to keep his expression even and not reveal just how much being so close to his master had affected him. How much he’d wanted to strip down to nothing and join Merlin. How much he’d wanted to sink into the steaming water, arms wrapping around Merlin and cradling him close until Merlin felt cared for. How much he’d wanted to hold his master until those awful aches and pains subsided in the heat. “You’re the one being battered until you can’t move a damned muscle. Why subject yourself to this barbarism?”

“I don’t have a choice.” Merlin had chuckled and looked up at the fabric stretching overhead. He’d groaned as he forced himself to stretch out one arm and then the other before doing the same with those long and tempting legs of his. Doing so had revealed a number of horrid bruises all over again – a sight that he’d wanted to forget. “I have to prove that I’m not someone you’d like to cross – with or without magic. I have to make sure our people know I can protect them.”

“I don’t think I could handle it.” Arthur had looked down at the spaulder in his grip and tried not to remember the expanse of bruises decorating pale skin. Tried not to remember how it felt to wear them himself. His frame had tensed as a familiar feeling wrapped around his vulnerable throat and squeezed. His voice had quietened to soften the rasp of fear that had rippled through him as he recalled the countless occasions he’d been shoved up against unyielding stone. He’d started polishing again to distract himself from that familiar burst of terror. “I couldn’t imagine being in your place out there – not with all those people watching, expectations rampant and placing so much pressure on me. I’d drop the sword as soon as someone charged me.”

“I doubt that. Arthur, you should remember that I’ve seen you fighting, and I know you’re no coward. Your inexperience and insecurities are irrelevant in this discussion – you wouldn’t be in that situation unless you’d been raised for it.”

A faint splashing sound had reached Arthur from the other side of the tent and then a soft sigh of pleasure and relief accompanied the following slick sound of soap being lathered with care. He’d peeked over his shoulder to see his master running the bar of soap over his slender and muscled chest tiredly, and Arthur had swallowed thickly, his startled lips parting and his heart thumping, his skin breaking out in a sweat as arousal coursed through him in a powerful torrent. His manhood had strained against the laces of his trousers all over again. Arthur had returned his gaze to the armour he was meant to be polishing, and had polished even harder, his knuckles whitening as Merlin continued to bathe behind him. His toes had curled in his boots as Merlin had cursed through another long sigh of pleasure. He’d bitten his lip to keep himself from making a similar noise of appreciation in response.

But the faint sounds of pleasure had turned to pain soon enough and then Merlin was choking out his name. Arthur had lunged out of his chair, his grip slackening around the armour, and had scrambled across the tent as Merlin had struggled to sit himself up and reach his back with a cloth.

“You could have asked.”

“I didn’t want to trouble you.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Arthur had answered dryly, his mouth curling in a soft smile despite his continued concern. “You trouble me all the damned time.”

Merlin had chuckled as Arthur had taken the cloth from him before reaching for the bar of soap. Arthur had dropped to his knees beside the bathtub. He’d ignored the insistent desirous throbbing between his thighs as he’d taken care of his master, his hand gentle and the cloth soft against tender bruises and scarred tissue and unblemished skin. He’d then washed raven hair, his fingers almost adoring while massaging, and Merlin had melted into a puddle of pleasure and relaxation. Merlin had moaned and sighed. He’d gone limp beneath his hands. He’d been a weak and trembling mess when Arthur helped him out of the cooling water at last. He’d wavered on his feet and sighed heavily, and Arthur had given him strength and support as those slender, bruised and aching arms had slipped around his shoulders for balance as Arthur dried and dressed him carefully, gently, his hands skimming flesh without meaning to as the softest clothes he’d selected that morning settled over a slender and muscled frame.

Sighing heavily, Arthur let his eyes drift open and dislodged the recollection with as much ease as he could manage. Those terrible bruises had been some of the worst he’d ever seen on Merlin. He could imagine the level of sheer violent force that would result in them after bearing numerous bruises of his own in the past. He’d face the same amount of force in the arena – with just a shield and a sword to protect him against the strength of his opponents.

Maybe it _was_ time to start going on missions with the Knights to prepare himself for the inevitable.

“I’ll raise the subject with the Queen this evening.” Arthur rose to his feet a bit awkwardly, the magic surging out to catch him when he almost overbalanced. It straightened him and steadied him until Arthur found his equilibrium. He headed for the entrance as the magic retreated. “I’ll see what she thinks.”

“When are you going to see what _you_ think?”

“What _I_ think?” Arthur paused and looked over his shoulder, his throat constricting at the thought. He refrained from dropping the ice and reaching for his ancestral ring that his fingers itched to fiddle with. “What _I_ think isn’t reliable. Recent events have proven that much to me. I suppose a monarch must select their councillors with so much care for that same reason – to fill the gaps in their knowledge and eradicate all the blind spots that could cause damage to their realm. So I _will_ be asking the Queen for her opinion. I’m going to keep asking, for as long as I have the opportunity, because I don’t know what I’m doing. I might never know. But thank you for listening, Ansgar; I do appreciate your counsel.”

“You don’t need to thank me.” Ansgar looked up from her netting, her wizened hands falling still. Her expression grew somewhat serious. “We all have a purpose in this world – some small and some greater than even the world might know. I’m proud to serve you and your future realm in whatever manner you deem necessary, Your Highness. That includes listening to your troubles and providing insight when you need it. I just hope it helps.”

“It does. I’ve improved so much since I started seeing you. I know I might never recover fully, but I’m thankful for the strides you’ve helped me make and the strides I’ll continue to make. I’ll never forget what you did for me.” Arthur managed a small and grateful smile despite the growing sting in his eyes. He looked away, swallowing, struggling to push the emotions back down because he’d lost enough control over his damned head already. Arthur took a long and calming breath as he counted time in his head. He let the distant sound of rolling waves soothe him as he continued speaking, calmer now and his voice twice as firm. Arthur looked at her again. “You made leaving that room bearable. You made being here manageable. You made me feel like I wasn’t...abnormal...and that meant the world to me. Ansgar, if I can ever return the favour in some way, please come to me and I’ll see what I can do to help you.”

“You know what I want.” Ansgar shook her head and chuckled quietly, returning to her weaving, a small smile curling her wizened mouth. “But the golden age of Albion will come when you’re ready, and not a moment sooner, Your Highness. There isn’t much point in asking for it.”

“At the moment...I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready, Ansgar.”

“Monarchs never feel ready, not when taking over from their predecessor or even while ruling, but you’ll be more than prepared when that moment comes. You’re the Once and Future King; no one else on this earth can accomplish what you’re fated to do and still keep the realms in balance. You’ve done it before. You’ll do it in this life and you’ll do it in the next. You’ll be more than capable of uniting, ruling, loving and protecting your people when you’re ready, Your Highness.”

“I’m not sure what I’d do without your faith in me or your counsel.” Arthur looked down at his injured wrist and relished the numb feeling spreading across his flesh. He turned to face his healer again and directed a sombre stare at Ansgar, his as yet unofficial councilwoman. “I don’t suppose you know what I should do about Merlin?”

“Trust in him.” Ansgar looked at him evenly, but her eyes carried the same sombre note that his did. Her mouth tightened as her hands fell still all over again. “Trust that Emrys had his reasons for doing what he did. Trust that he can hold himself together long enough for Fate to bridge the gap between you. Trust that those who love him are keeping an eye on him while you’re incapable of coming to his aid. Trust in Fate. Trust the Gods to guide your footsteps.”

Arthur swallowed thickly, nodding, taking that advice and lodging it inside his chest as he turned away, leaving her in peace. That renewed faith bolstered his step. It wasn’t a surprise to find Morgana waiting, her silk gown stained from her fall to the grass earlier, and her expression strained with concern. She brightened as soon as she saw him and darted over to him. Surprising himself and his sister, Arthur wrapped his uninjured arm around Morgana for a brief moment and then led her away, led her over to the edge of the cliff. Her silk gown rippled in the breeze as the pair looked out at the rolling waves stretching out across the vast horizon.

“I won’t be parted from him forever.”

“I know.” Morgana touched his uninjured wrist in a tentative fashion and looked askance at Arthur, who looked askance at his sister in return. Something unsure flickered in her green eyes. “But I’ll make a deal with you: win that tournament this summer and I’ll help you infiltrate Camelot. I’ll make sure both of you leave that place alive – no matter what.”

“And if I lose?”

“Then I’ll help you when you’re ready,” Morgana answered as she captured his hand gently, a gesture he’d never shared with his sister, “whenever that moment comes.”

Arthur squeezed her hand in return.


	44. Chapter Forty-Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, folks, though I'll admit this consists of Arthur reflecting in his journal and magical smut. Have fun.
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think.

_Midsummer, 536 AD – not quite two years since I left you:_

_I can’t stop shaking, Merlin. I almost snapped this damned quill in half before I managed to calm down somewhat. I had to put the quill down and step out onto the balcony, where I settled on the floor and meditated while listening to the waves make love to the caves down below. I mediated until I felt capable of writing all of this down without losing control of the emotions coursing through me. I leave for the tournament being held in Wessex in the morning. Can you believe it? I’m not sure whether I’m nervous or excited or some combination of the two._

_But I know I’m hopeful._

_I’m hoping I’ll see someone I’ll recognise there – someone that doesn’t want to see me dead at their feet. You have no idea how much I ache at the prospect of seeing you even for a moment – regardless of whether we speak to each other or whether you even look at me at all. I ache to see you walking around and smiling, so beautiful that I’d stop breathing at the sight of you._

_I ache to see you in your chainmail and armour again. You were an impressive figure when competing, Merlin. You were so agile and clever, and so strong in your own way, but the most attractive thing was that infuriating little smirk dancing across your mouth whenever you circled your opponents in the arena. That stupid smirk often had me thinking about you manhandling me and pinning me against the table in the tent while you ran your gloved hands over me. It had me thinking of you keeping me silent with the crushing weight of one hand and taking me while still wearing your armour, your hauberk pressing hot and hard against me._

_Such sinful thoughts infuriated me._

_I never wanted to think of you that way, not when I knew the King and the law would never let us be together. Not when you could never choose me. But I still thought of you and you still chose me in the end. That thought continues to startle me even now. I know how our profound bond started in the first place and yet I’m still surprised that you chose me in this life...despite all the barriers keeping us apart. I still feel like I don’t deserve your love. I still feel like I’ll never be good enough for you. I know these thoughts aren’t healthy, and I’m doing the best I can to push them away, but sometimes I weaken and these thoughts come rushing back in to drown me with all their might._

_Sometimes I think it would have been best for all concerned had you and Sir Tor married. That it would have been better had I relinquished the position I held in your household._

_I’d have preferred to live in a world where you chose to give your heart to someone else than live in one where you suffered because you chose to love me against your better judgement._

_You deserve so much better than a life of suffering, than the loss of your magic and the separation from your family. You deserve so much better than what I caused._

_You deserve to be safe and happy, even if you discover neither aspect involves having me around in the future. I know we’ve made certain promises to each other, but should you ever find someone that makes you happier, I’ll respect your decision and I’ll take an immediate step back. I won’t hold you to the promises you once made to me. I love you so much that I’d never keep you from being happy, even if the person earning that secret smile is no longer me. I’d suffer an endless heartache sooner than watch you spend a lifetime unhappy._

_I hope you know that._

_I don’t think this event will happen. Honestly, I hope it doesn’t because I want to be the one fortunate enough to spend the rest of his life making you happy, but you need to know an alternative option is there for you. We don’t need to be married to ensure peace and justice reign in Camelot and Mercia. We don’t need to be married to unite the various realms of Albion together._

_But I’ve digressed so much. You’ve distracted me yet again when I meant to talk about something else. Damn you. You do that all the time and you aren’t even here to do it in person. Not all of you. Your magic is being a nuisance currently, winding itself around me and vibrating, doing its best to mellow me out and pull me over to the bed. It likes to take me as often as possible. I can’t help but find it flattering, especially when it rips through clothes as though wearing them at all is outrageous when it could have me naked all the time. Just the thought is warming me with embarrassment and delight._

_Your magic took me just last night. It crushed me against the mattress and took me apart slowly, deliberately, reducing me to nothing but the hard flesh pressing against the bedclothes and the moans escaping me as your magic rocked deep inside me with each slow slide. Did you know it could do that? Did you know it could make it seem as though it were you making love to me here in Cornwall when you’re nowhere near me? Can you feel it through our connection? Can you feel me gripping your length whenever your magic drives me to new heights? Can you feel it when I arch against your magic? Can you hear me moaning, cursing, and begging to be taken harder, deeper, faster? Can you feel it when I climax?_

_I think that would be strange and wonderful. I bet you’d love that. I wish this feeling went in both directions. I wish you could feel these hands running over your skin while your magic makes love to me. I wish you could feel these thighs wrapping around you as I whimper and moan at the phantom press of your arousal inside me. I wish you could feel me clenching around you when your magic rubs against that secret place inside me._

_I still don’t know what that place is called. I’ve been too embarrassed to go researching in the library, in case someone walks in on me. Just the thought of being caught has me turning red with mortification. It was humiliating enough to learn the people here think I’m having a torrid love affair: with a sailor; with a warrior; with some married man or woman._

_The rumours never end._

_I’ve even overheard one person claiming that an incubus must be visiting me at night and seducing me. I’ve spent countless hours laughing at that explanation. Your magic feels like a damned incubus sometimes. I find myself wondering whether your magic would be enough to get me with child had I been born a woman or had I asked one of the mages here to fashion me a more effeminate frame._

_Sometimes I wonder whether you’d even like to see me in some other form. I wonder whether seeing me with...with breasts...and with those other unmentionables...would make you recoil from me. Are you even attracted to effeminate shapes? I’ve never seen you so much as look at a woman for as long as I’ve known you. Would you prefer to have me remain as I am? Would you prefer not to have somewhat natural children? Do you even want children?_

_I should have asked you that before._

_I’d like to have natural children with you. I...I like thinking about it. I like thinking about feeling your child growing inside me. I like thinking about the patter of small feet on stone floors. I like thinking about small fingers curling around mine. I like thinking about a small head nestling against your shoulder while you doze in your favourite chair, having fallen asleep after a long day, the pair of you looking so relaxed and comfortable. I want to hear their first burst of unrestrained laughter and watch them take their first steps. I want to get excited over hearing their first word._

_I like thinking about feeling your arms winding around me as you whisper about how proud you are of me for...for being brave enough to go through that struggle. It’ll be a struggle. Merewald has told me how traumatic childbirth can be and I won’t lie: the thought of giving birth terrifies me. Honestly, I think it terrifies me more than the prospect of fighting in the tournament this summer. At least I have some experience with fighting and opposing people stronger than me._

_Will you be competing in the tournament or are you under too much surveillance to come to Wessex? It wouldn’t surprise me to learn the latter is true. I can’t imagine your uncle would let you out of his sight after you kissed me in public view. I can’t imagine he’d risk letting you reunite with me while he wasn’t looking; he knows you’d leave with me in a heartbeat and never come back after what he did to you._

_Given the opportunity, I’d pounce on you as soon as we were alone and I’d spend the time talking to you instead of donning armour, making love with you instead of fighting, and cuddling with you instead of socialising with the other warriors competing in the tournament. I’d abscond with you then. I’m sure Merewald would forgive me once I introduced you to her. Just the thought of being able to do so makes me quiver with nervous anticipation. I hope she’d give us her blessing, Merlin. I’d wed you in a heartbeat. I’d wed you and then we’d tackle Albion together._

_Well._

_Obviously, I’d ask you first. I can’t just assume you’ll want to wed me at once: you might prefer to wait a while before wedding me._

_We could enter a public courtship?_

_Would you like that?_

_I think I would. I’d like to acknowledge what we have in a public setting. I’d like to hold your hand when out for a stroll. I’d like to sit under a tree with you and read or sprawl on the beach with you and doze in contentment. I’d like to go swimming with you and take you on a charming trip in a faering. I’d like to go on picnics. I’ve never done that with someone before – at least not in a romantic sense. I’d like to have that chance with you. I’d like to do things with you that other couples can._

_Would you...dance with me?_

_Not in front of people._

_I’m not sure I could handle the embarrassment when I’d make a mistake in front of them. But I’d like to dance with you in the corridor while musicians perform in the banquet hall – no matter how hard you laugh at me afterwards. I know you’d laugh at me. I know I’m...comical...when I’m awkward. I wouldn’t mind someone laughing, if it was you. I like seeing you laugh._

_I feel like I’m babbling. Do I sound like I’m babbling? Maybe I should put the quill down for a while and step away._

Arthur did so immediately, surging out of his chair, fiddling with his ancestral ring as his face warmed at the thought of dancing with Merlin and the embarrassment that would follow when Merlin started laughing, the skin around his eyes crinkling in the manner Arthur so adored. He’d forgive the embarrassment for the sake of that warm burst of laughter. Then he’d drive Merlin up against the wall and tell him to shut up before kissing him senseless until the laughter faded away, until Merlin hauled him still closer, hands hot and possessive as he gripped his backside. Just the thought made him shiver. He knew what those hands felt like and had no problem imagining them clutching, squeezing, kneading, and the thought earned a soft moan as Arthur crossed the chamber and braced his hands against the mantelpiece. His eyes fluttered closed as he imagined the scene continuing, imagining his laces slipping undone in some alcove along the corridor, imagining those exquisite hands cupping his backside directly, imagining the hitch of his own breath as his hips started rocking, grinding his arousal against the hard length pressing against him.

His hands tightened around the mantelpiece.

His breath quickened as the surge of magic that had followed him across the chamber started acting as Arthur imagined those exquisite hands would act. Then he felt something he’d never felt before when engaging the magic in sin: the press of eager phantom lips against his. Arthur gasped in surprise and then moaned when one of those phantom hands rose to grip his hair. It wasn’t long until Arthur began responding, lips parting, starving for a damned kiss that grew deep and passionate between one moment and the next. Arthur felt himself flushing, managing to humiliate himself as he imagined the absurd picture he must be making: his mouth moving against thin air, his tongue answering the phantom tongue pressing into his mouth.

But it was no less absurd than wrapping his thighs around phantom hips while the magic pinned him against the mattress and made love to him. The hand in his hair started roaming, sliding along the curve of his back to grip his backside once more as Arthur moaned feverishly, his flush spreading, pleasure curling through his veins as the magic drove him back one step and then another, soon pinning him against the private dining table. He whimpered at the loss of those phantom hands before breaking the impassioned kiss and cursing, shivering, feeling something else pressing hard against his arousal.

Those phantom hands returned to slide beneath his loose blue tunic and Arthur raised his arms obediently, hot anticipation curling within him. The magic threw his tunic to the floor. Goose bumps rose across his skin. He opened his eyes for a moment and that was when the magic captured his mouth in another searing kiss. He responded eagerly, almost demandingly, desperate for that claiming slide of tongue that he hadn’t experienced since Ealdor. His trembling hands reached out to touch a chest that wasn’t there and Arthur broke away, his face flaming and the barrel of his chest heaving, mortified that he’d forgotten what he was kissing for even a moment. The magic eased away, the phantom hands gentling, and Arthur found himself feeling pathetic with gratitude.

“Kiss me again. Please.”

His words were a soft plea and the magic had no issue with following the gentle request. Those phantom hands cradled Arthur, caressing his face tenderly, and Arthur swallowed the sob that rose in his chest when he imagined the soft expression that would have washed across pale features. His head tipped back in pleasure as the magic kissed him again. It was slow and tender, but deep and lingering, reminding him of the night he and Merlin first made love in Ealdor. Trembling, he sank into the embrace without hesitation. A long sigh of pleasure escaped Arthur, who bared his neck even further, granting access when that phantom mouth began descending. The magic remained tender and reverent as those phantom lips started sucking at the base of his neck and Arthur began whispering quiet words of encouragement as one of those phantom hands slid upwards to lose itself in his hair all over again. It never pulled or wrenched his hair, but gripped securely, and it was more than enough for him in that moment as his arousal strained against his laces.

Arthur spread his thighs wider, sighing when the magic pressed closer, phantom hips rocking with care. The other phantom hand slid down to tug at his laces and Arthur moaned at the sudden release of pressure against his hard length. His hips bucked. His thighs trembled. His trousers slid downwards to pool around his boots. Soon his boots and stockings joined the puddle of fabric and two phantom hands found his thighs. Magic gripped him with obvious strength and then hoisted Arthur, who almost choked on a childish burst of laughter, up onto the private dining table.

Just the thought of where he was sitting scandalised Arthur and sent a hot pulse of desire through him. His toes curled. Another burst of childish laughter escaped him as a tendril of magic ran over a ticklish spot. But then he was being kissed again and it was as wonderful as ever, one phantom hand soothing his hip and the other running along the curve of his spine as Arthur arched against his that power, relishing the press of magic along his front as though it were a lover, his lover, his Merlin. It seemed as though the magic was doing its best to seem more and more solid for him – as though it knew how much Arthur ached to have Merlin closer, to run his hands over something familiar, over flat planes and long lines and a firm musculature that used to make him feel so safe and secure whenever Merlin drew him into a warm embrace.

Swallowing, Arthur reached out after breaking the kiss and let his fingertips brush across the faint shape of familiar pectoral muscles. The magic sparked for a moment and then solidified at his touch. It warmed beneath his hands and feeling that shift emboldened him. Arthur started caressing the pectorals on display, watching the outline of two nipples grow firmer, hardening, and the sight of them tempted him as much as Merlin had tempted him. He dipped his head to draw one of them between his lips and sucked gently, humming softly, his mouth tingling as it touched the magic. The familiar frame rippled at the reverent touch and then distorted before shattering into a million particles of golden magic that reformed into its usual shapeless miasma. Arthur straightened and looked away, his mouth still tingling, swallowing a second sob and drawing in a shuddering breath. He counted time in his head until he felt some semblance of calm wash over him.

Magic wound around him in a warm embrace. Arthur could feel the misery, and the apology, the surge of regret that it couldn’t be what he’d wanted the magic to be for long enough.

“Hey,” murmured Arthur, relaxing into the apology, “you don’t have to apologise. I don’t need you to look like Merlin: you’re still part of him and even the smallest part of him is more than enough for me. You’re more than enough.”

Magic vibrated against him.

Those phantom lips returned a moment later, hot and hard and impassioned. Arthur let himself be urged down onto his back and raised his thighs obediently, spreading them wider, moaning when he felt the renewed press of phantom hips between them. He longed to grip raven hair or feel familiar muscles rippling, but settled for gripping the edges of the dining table. He let himself luxuriate in the gentle rocking, so at odds with the vigorous kissing, those phantom hands seizing his wrists and tugging them upwards until the back of his hands pressed against the dining table. A tendril of magic remained to keep them in place as those phantom hands slid down over the muscles in his arms. His face flamed as the phantom lips drew away, as though the magic were admiring the sight of him on display, the sight of him at its mercy. Arthur dragged his bottom lip between his teeth and then choked back a shout of pleasure when one of those phantom hands tweaked the hardened peak of his nipple in a rough fashion.

His manhood throbbed with need at the unexpected and exquisite touch.

The magic kissed him harder, forceful and possessive. Arthur melted beneath that overwhelming power, pleasure coiling, his eager moans morphing into short and sharp whimpers as those phantom hips quickened between his thighs. His skin beaded with sweat and his manhood started twitching, pulsing, need rippling through him in thick waves. The magic drew away, though not completely, but enough for their impassioned kiss to end.

Arthur could still feel the magic lingering. It hovered close like a lover. It lingered close enough that his quickening breaths would have been felt had it been Merlin pressing him against the dining table. His hands clenched overhead. His pleasure continued building, eyes squeezing shut as his frame tightened like a longbow, arching, threatening to snap in half.

Another hard tweak of his nipple shattered him.

Arthur slumped against the dining table and the magic cuddled closer, too hot against his feverish skin and yet so exquisite. It released his wrists and caressed his upper arms and shoulders with care. Arthur turned his face away, panting, feeling so much more than content as tender kisses were peppered all over his cheek and nose and along the curve of his jaw as he kept his eyes closed. Phantom hands ran over his sides in a tender manner. Arthur lifted his head to glance down at the shimmering magic running over his body, mumbling, “That feels so good. How do you make it feel so good? How do you make it feel like I’ll never find another like you?” He shook his head and swallowed before speaking again. His head thumped against the dining table to ease the strain in his neck. His voice trembled even as he smiled like a dazed fool. “How do you make it feel like no one else could make me feel like this? Have you and your master ruined me for other people?”

The magic pressed a kiss against the end of his nose.

Arthur chuckled and tried to get away, turning his face away, but his smile broadened even as the magic followed after him and pressed another kiss against the tip of his nose. He tried to wriggle free. It wasn’t long until gentle teasing became kissing, slow and deep and tender, Arthur sighing in renewed pleasure as phantom hands cradled his face. It didn’t matter that the seed from his last climax was still staining his stomach when the magic helped him turn over at last and urged him up on to his knees. He closed his eyes and buried his face in his arms as phantom hands teased his thighs apart again. Arthur luxuriated in each exquisite touch that followed as phantom fingers and tongue opened him up slowly, carefully, ensuring he was wet and relaxed before the blunt head of that familiar manhood pressed against him.

A moan rumbled low in his throat as anticipation curled hot inside him.

He loved this part. He loved the growing suspense as the magic lingered longer and longer against his taint. He loved not knowing whether it would be a slow and deep claiming, or a rough and wild one.

Arthur started squirming, flushed and more than ready, almost desperate to have that magic buried inside him again. His throat clamped shut around a whine of protest when the magic withdrew. His hands curled into fists. His muscles quivered. His manhood stood stiff and eager between his thighs again – considering how much it spent hardening now, it often seemed like his manhood was making up for all the time lost in Camelot. Arthur reached down and wrapped a hand around it. He never even got to stroke before he jerked under the force of an unexpected and scolding swat to his backside. Arthur gasped in shock and then moaned as the magic slammed inside him. He raised himself up on his hands when he was given a moment to recuperate from the sudden intrusion.

His breath quickening, Arthur urged the magic to start moving, needing to feel that rough force thrusting in and out of him and the magic complied without hesitation.

Phantom hips slammed against his backside over and over, that phantom arousal driving deep inside him. Arthur punctuated each thrust with a whimper, his pleasure building, the crude sound of hips slamming against bare skin absent. But he didn’t have time to mourn its absence. He never did. Arthur arched his back and cried out as the altered angle sent a burst of familiar lightning shooting through him. A phantom hand gripped his hair and started tugging with just enough force to leave him almost sobbing in ecstasy, his muscular frame tensing, his heart doing its best to burst out of his chest as the magic continued to claim him with overwhelming passion. He choked out a curse. His hands and knees ached from holding himself in place...but it was inconsequential compared to the repeated bursts of lightning shooting through his veins and the pleasure coiling inside him.

It was almost a relief when his climax rippled through Arthur and his strength gave out. He might have fallen straight off the dining table had the magic not surged around him and held him in place for a moment before easing him down with care. Arthur panted against the dining table. His skin was blazing, the magic adding to the endless inferno as it sprawled across his body, but he was too exhausted to move and he hadn’t even done much but hold still and let himself be claimed. Tender kisses trailed across his shoulders. He couldn’t even muster the strength to arch into them like some feline eager for affection...and he wanted that affection. He craved it.

Panting, Arthur raised his head enough to murmur, “You’re a beast.”

A phantom hand swatted his backside.

Arthur chuckled tiredly, moving with care until he was sitting down. An exquisite ache shot up through his spine. His feet hung in the air, not quite swinging, but not quite still either. Tender kisses trailed over his neck and Arthur luxuriated in each one.

“You’d better heal me later,” Arthur warned as a tendril of magic eradicated the evidence of his pleasure from his stomach and thighs and from the dining table. “I can’t ride to Wessex on a sore arse.”

A playful kiss was pressed to the tip of his nose.

“I’m serious. I’m not getting into the saddle when I’m still aching,” Arthur answered sharply, who tried his best to scowl even as soft and affectionate kisses started to rain over his face. “This can’t continue when we’re in Wessex either, you know.”

The magic wilted at the announcement.

“I know,” Arthur agreed quietly, looking down and away, still somewhat embarrassed to speak to something that couldn’t speak back. His face was still hot from their rough lovemaking, so he couldn’t blush with that embarrassment. “I’ll miss it too. But it won’t be permanent and you know that. I just can’t afford to be distracted during the tournament. You can have me almost as soon as I win or lose the tournament. Sound fair?”

Phantom lips kissed him and lingered long enough to earn a contented sigh from Arthur, who eased himself down from the dining table a moment or two later and winced as pain flared through his taint and up along his back. A golden miasma of magic followed him across the chamber and into the large bed waiting, offering to hold the blankets up while Arthur squirmed until he was comfortable.

His face nestling into the nearest pillow, Arthur sighed in contentment as the magic tucked the blankets around him and dived beneath to find his abused taint and sore muscles. He mumbled a few words of encouragement as the healing magic filtered through his skin. His pain subsided. His muscles relaxed. His frame grew heavier with approaching sleep. A small smile curled his mouth when the magic wrapped around him from behind.


	45. Chapter Forty-Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, folks. I tried to have it finished sooner, but I was absent from the house a lot last week.
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think. (Honestly, comments are super encouraging and motivating, so please do feel free to leave one...)

Arthur helped Ninianne into the saddle and couldn’t help smiling at the sight of her infectious grin. He mounted up behind her and glanced at his sister, who’d volunteered to join him as part of the armed escort he’d chosen for his trip to Wessex. She and Sir Lancelot were talking quietly, the former somewhat irritated and the latter chuckling, and then Morgana huffed as Sir Lancelot mounted a palomino hippogriff. She mounted behind him amid mutinous mutterings. Chuckling, Arthur looked away, knowing well that such mutinous mutterings were nonsense: Morgana had grown too fond of Gwen over the last few months to do harm to Sir Lancelot.

Not that she would otherwise.

Arthur was growing more and more certain of her true character with each passing day, though he never forgot about what happened to Morris. He just...wasn’t certain she’d ever been the villain he’d painted Morgana to be. It wasn’t as though he had the right to judge. He’d killed someone for his own selfish reasons: to safeguard someone he cared about and their future in Camelot after he’d made a grievous error in ignorance. What did that action make of him? Had that situation been much different?

He wasn’t certain.

Honestly, Arthur tried not to think about that night in the Crystal Cave. He tried not to think about the blood that stained his hands – for more reasons than one. Dislodging the sudden surge of unwanted memory, he wrapped an arm around his ward and drew Ninianne into a warm embrace. She sank back against him for a moment. He kissed the top of her head. Arthur no longer feared triggering a vision whenever he touched her – in passing or with intent. Over the course of their training, Morgana had discovered that Ninianne had believed herself to be controlling her gift until some weeks after the more experienced witch had arrived in Cornwall. But that couldn’t have been farther from the truth. Ninianne had been suppressing it instead. She’d forced her gift to take an alternative path to ensure such visions would be seen.

It was the unfortunate reason for her historic dreams. It was the reason she’d seen the powerful vision of her elder brother harming himself – a sight Ninianne was never going to forget. No matter how much she might wish to.

Their training plan had been scrapped as a result and Morgana had started from scratch to accommodate the true path her gift was meant to take. Starting late was far better than never starting in the first place.

Lately, Ninianne was faring so much better. Glimpses of the past surprised her less and less frequently, though it still happened now and then. Arthur, however, had the utmost confidence in his ward and her abilities. He knew the training plan Morgana had developed for Ninianne was complex and learning to control when she had a vision was just the beginning, so Arthur often allowed the young witch to practice on him.

He’d much rather be there to comfort her after a distressing vision than leave Ninianne go off and choose her own practice target – who knew what sort of horrors she’d see when practicing on someone else!

Arthur could still remember the jolt of alarm that shot through him when Ninianne had asked Merewald for permission to practice on her, but he needn’t have worried. His aunt was a prudent woman and had declined immediately, though she’d leaned down to murmur apologetically, “I’m sorry, but I can’t take that risk. There are some things in this world someone so young should never have to witness – with or without intent.”

His ward had taken the rejection better than he’d expected and had accepted his immediate offer, smiling up at Arthur, though he’d been able to tell she’d been somewhat disappointed at having been rejected at the time. Ninianne wasn’t disappointed now. Arthur supposed the likelihood of catching a glimpse of her elder brother in a compromising position with him had intensified her determination to control her gift when practicing on Arthur, who found it hard not to think about such memories when the magic was there to remind him each evening.

Not that there would be much reminding over the next few weeks: sitting at his writing desk earlier that morning, his limbs still somewhat heavy, Arthur had reiterated the command that he wasn’t to be touched in Wessex – except to heal or comfort him – until the tournament was over. Just to be certain the magic understood. Naturally, the magic had chosen to slither down between his thighs and undo the laces of his trousers before stroking him to hardness. Arthur, who’d been about to start writing, had snapped his quill in half and had splattered his journal with ink in the process. Then he’d moaned quietly, his head tipping back in ecstasy, knowing well what the magic planned to do next. He’d mumbled a word of encouragement and had slumped in his chair, his eyes growing heavy, watching the golden miasma hover over his groin even as phantom lips sank down the length of him.

But he’d been adamant on not going further than that.

Arthur could still feel the magic pouting, pulsing beneath his tunic. He’d taken to keeping it close to his skin so he could feel the emotions running rampant within it. It also eliminated the urge to reach for it whenever his confidence waned: the magic would just start vibrating to remind him that he wasn’t alone. That he’d never be alone as long as some part of Merlin remained with him.

A smile curled his mouth at the thought.

Still smiling, Arthur straightened in the saddle and reached for the reins as Freya mounted behind Sir Kay, who’d been hesitant to ride tandem with her after witnessing her partial transformation a week earlier. He had to admit that even he’d been somewhat alarmed when she’d sprouted fur and claws before swiping at a drunkard that had grabbed her backside when she’d come to the tavern to find Arthur, and his adoptive brother, who’d both been invited to join Morgana and Gwen for a private game of cards in her chambers that night. Arthur, however, had considered the other side of the outrageous incident twice as pressing; no one should feel entitled to grab someone without consent. He’d crossed the tavern in two long strides and had grabbed a tunic ripe with the scent of sweat and ale. He’d wrenched the drunkard out of the way, had twisted his arm with a quick and practised manoeuvre and then slammed him down on the nearest table before Freya could rip him open with a vicious snarl.

Arthur had given her a quelling stare and had waited for the magical collar to help the woman regain control of herself before hauling the drunkard away, informing him that he’d be remaining in the dungeon until he learned some manners. A tense atmosphere had settled in the tavern before the door swung shut behind him and he’d escorted the stumbling mess up to the castle.

“I’m not sorry,” Freya had muttered when Arthur had emerged from the dungeon and found her waiting, her head bowed and arms wrapped around her small frame. He’d felt the thick waves of rage and terror rolling from her shoulders. An overwhelming sense of understanding had rippled through him in an instant. “Don’t expect me to apologise to that pig, Your Highness.”

“I don’t. Not when it comes to what that man did.” He’d beckoned her to follow him and had moved some distance away, so the guardswomen wouldn’t overhear him speaking to Freya. He’d ducked into a quiet alcove and was relieved for a moment when Freya trusted him enough to follow suit. He’d worked hard at cultivating that sense of trust since she and Morgana had arrived in Cornwall. He’d frowned down at her in concern then. “I know what it feels like to react instinctively, but you can’t just tear people to shreds. Do you need me to find a healer for you? I’m sure mine could recommend a few.”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea.” Freya had looked up at him and then away, the muscles in her throat bobbing, her arms tightening around herself. The runes on her collar glowed. “I haven’t had the best experience with Druids regarding the…condition I suffer from.”

“But _you’re_ a Druid...”

“I know,” Freya had snapped immediately, her eyes turning a deep green for an instant before the runes flared again. Her voice had quietened with sorrow. “It doesn’t mean we see eye to eye all the time.”

“I thought healing and nurturing was an important part of Druidism?” His frown had become confused then. His growing concern had filtered down through his spine and even the magic in his crystal had started to react: it had sent out warm pulses of comfort to ease the tension between his shoulders. He’d almost reached out to grip a slim shoulder, but had refrained from doing so with monumental effort. Moments like those often made him realise just how tactile he could be – even when he never meant to be. “Was the person responsible for your…condition…a Druid?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” Arthur had answered quietly, his voice soft with compassion and understanding, “but if you ever need an ear, please don’t be afraid to come to me. We need to support each other, Freya.”

“We do?”

“We do.” He’d nodded slowly, his expression soft and earnest. Freya had stared at him in return. “Who else will support those who’ve been hurt but people who’ve been hurt before? Or those with a strong sense of human compassion? We need to support each other; we’re the pillars to our own wellbeing, Freya.”

Arthur had ducked back out into the corridor, intending to leave that thought for the woman to consider, but had frozen when a small and vulnerable voice reached him. He’d glanced over his shoulder at the faint utterance of his name. He’d granted Freya permission to use it in private not long after she and Morgana had arrived in Cornwall – but she’d never done so.

“She blamed me.” Her voice had trembled and the runes on her collar had started glowing brighter, almost bright enough to be considered blinding, and her arms had tightened around her small and slender frame. Arthur had turned back to face her immediately, stepping closer, concern and compassion clutching hands within him as Freya continued speaking. Her hand had risen to clutch at her collar as she stared at the stone floor beneath their feet. Her voice had cracked down the middle. “Her son attacked me and I...I fought back as hard as I could. He later died of his wounds. He’d managed to tell her something, something of what had happened in the clearing, but I don’t know what he told her, not exactly. But she blamed me. She cursed me. If it wasn’t for this collar, I’d be out there slaughtering, mercilessly and uncontrollably, whenever the midnight hour arrived or whenever I suffered heightened emotions like fear and anger.”

Arthur had stared at her in growing horror, unable to comprehend how someone could be so cruel and wicked to those who’d suffered so much. He’d reached for her then and his hand had trembled. He’d gripped her shoulder, squeezing, doing his best to comfort without breaking the implicit boundaries between them or murmuring platitudes that wouldn’t help in the least.

“I can still taste them.”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

“I attacked the settlement I grew up in.” Freya had stared at Arthur in agonised disbelief that he’d ever consider her less than at fault for what happened. Her eyes had started watering – not that he could blame her. He’d have drowned himself in the river had such a curse forced him to do the same in Camelot. “I killed people I’d known since I was a child. I don’t blame them for casting me out. I don’t blame the other settlements for not wanting to take me in after what I did. I never have. I just don’t want to go through that again.”

“But you’re safe to be around now.”

“Arthur,” Freya had said quietly, but firmly, despite the multitude of blatant emotions still coursing through her, “I might not be sorry, but it’ll never be safe for other people to be near me. Tonight proved it. Not even this collar is enough to stop the beast from coming out on occasion.”

“That was an extenuating circumstance!” His heart had jumped into his throat as the protest burst out of him. Arthur had stepped still closer, his expression earnest and beseeching, clutching both shoulders then in a firm grip. “I punched someone I care about in error last summer because I existed in a state of terror; it doesn’t mean I’m to blame for what happened. Nor are you to blame for what happened tonight. Some reactions are outside the scope of our control until we learn to overcome our instincts and that takes time and dedication. It also requires compassion and understanding from others.”

Freya hadn’t answered.

Arthur glanced at her now, frowning, but said nothing. He gripped with his thighs and snapped the reins instead. Hecate broke into a gallop. Ninianne crowed with delight as the three of them plunged over the edge of the cliffs. A warm smile replaced his frown as waves of happiness emanated from the young witch seated in front of him as Hecate plummeted towards the sea before breaking her descent with a powerful beat of her wings and soaring higher, trilling, her own delight evident. One tug had Hecate banking, turning to face the east and soaring over Tintagel Castle.

His future realm spread out ahead of him. His heart warmed at the sight of lush greenery, his realm vibrant and so full of life. He’d come to care so much for the view since he’d first taken to the air. He’d come to care for the people even more. His future subjects were a fierce sort capable of braving even the harshest weather. The compassion and understanding he’d witnessed since joining the Knights on small quests across the realm had been staggering; not one of his future subjects had scorned him for remaining in the castle for so long, for being unable to face the outside world for so long, for being unable to muster the courage required to do it. One wizened sailor, who’d been repairing some torn netting, had even gone so far as to shrug on one such occasion and say, “Not all storms are at sea.”

The commentary, offered so easily, had floored Arthur in an instant. He’d spent several moments just staring at the sailor until a nudge from Elyan had startled him into motion. He’d inclined his head in a show of respect and had moved on quickly, his heart hammering, his throat constricting, clutching the arm nearest him even as his adoptive brother leaned in to murmur, “See? You were fretting for nothing, as usual.”

“It wasn’t for nothing,” Arthur had answered immediately, stung. He’d relinquished his arm at once and had quickened his pace to bring himself out of earshot. “I can’t help fretting, Elyan. I can’t turn it off whenever I want. You know that.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“Isn’t it?” Arthur had ducked around a hovel to hide himself from his people and had whirled to face his adoptive brother, his face flushed with emotion. His mounting anger and upset had coloured his voice. “Just because you don’t think something is worth fretting over, it doesn’t mean that I don’t think so. I happen to care about other peoples’ opinions of me. Is that so wrong? Is it so wrong to want to be good enough?!”

“But you shouldn’t have to worry,” Elyan had answered gently, reaching for his arm in a concerned manner. “Not about that. Arthur, you’re good enough. You don’t have to prove that!”

“Just leave me alone.” Arthur had wrenched his arm away, a pang of guilt flickering through him when something akin to hurt flashed across familiar features. He’d drawn himself up then and gathered the various scraps of a commanding presence. “Patrol the perimeter with Sir Kay; I’ll get started on the fortifications with Dame Robyn.”

Arthur hadn’t spoken to his adoptive brother again until after the violent skirmish with the aggressive bandits that had threatened the village and necessitated their armed presence in the first place. But he’d fought back to back with Elyan and ensured that he wasn’t left open for a single instant. Elyan had done the same for him. Later, when the bandits’ bodies had been burning, Arthur and Elyan had drawn each other side and had offered an immediate apology, the pair of them rushing to speak at the same time before chuckling and starting again. Both of them had been more than sincere. Arthur had drawn his adoptive brother into a tight embrace and Elyan had clapped his shoulder, pleased to no longer be at odds with him.

Shaking his head to clear that recollection and drawing in a burst of fresh air, Arthur looked at his ward.  

“What do you think?”

“This is almost as good as riding Kilgharrah!” Ninianne threw a glance over her shoulder, her eyes twinkling, and a beaming grin on her face. “Do archers get to ride hippogriffs?”

“Usually, just Knights.” Arthur hated himself for a moment when her smile dimmed a fraction at his answer. He hastened to say, “But there are no rules preventing you from being both in the future. Your brother is both!”

“Merlin is a lot of things. He never knows when to stop juggling,” Ninianne argued back. She looked out ahead of her and raised her voice to help it reach him. “He often bit off more than he could chew.”

“It didn’t seem like that.”

“Being good at hiding doesn’t mean you’re not suffering.” Arthur shifted his grip as the surge of happiness ebbed away, leaving behind a contemplative misery, and he wrapped a comforting arm around her. Ninianne didn’t even notice. She was too intent on talking. “I saw glimpses of him weeping so often when I was little. I didn’t understand then. But I understand now. Merlin is like an open book: the one thing you can see are the pages opened in front of you. You can’t see the other pages hidden behind them. He was better with you. He seemed to handle the juggling better, Arthur, at least for a while.”

_Until we grew besotted with each other_ , Arthur thought miserably, remembering the obvious strain affecting Merlin until Arthur did his best to distract him. He’d known Merlin was stressed because of him – because of the fine line between lawfulness and treason that Merlin straddled each day, loving Arthur, desiring Arthur, letting their relationship flourish behind closed doors despite the inherent risk in doing so. He remembered the moments Merlin set aside for unwinding, for bonding with Arthur, for reading to him and carding a hand through his hair, and wondered how seldom Merlin had been relaxed during those serene moments.

How seldom Merlin showed the true depths of what he felt.

A knot of discomfort formed in his stomach at the thought.

Just contemplating how stressed Merlin might have been while ensuring Arthur was calm and peaceful left him tense with overwhelming guilt. He should have spent more time caring for his former master, ensuring Merlin was alright. That he wasn’t crumbling to pieces from the stress of being Crown Prince of Camelot and Mercia and the stress of walking on eggshells around the King, whose callous nature would know no bounds once Merlin stood on the other side of the law.

Once Merlin stood with Arthur.

Swallowing, Arthur pushed those thoughts away, forcing himself to draw in a slow breath lest his anxieties get the better of him again. He focused on the expanse of blue and green stretching out ahead of them as Tintagel Castle fell farther and farther behind with each beat of powerful wings.

“How goes the archery?”

“Terribly,” Ninianne answered immediately, laughing at herself. “Dame Robyn doesn’t think I have much potential.”

“You’ll prove her wrong.”

“Will I?”

“If you want to be an archer,” Arthur replied firmly, his arm tightening a fraction around her, “no one else has the power to stop you. You’re in control of who you are and what you want to be. Don’t ever forget that.”

“When did you get so smart?”

“I was born that way, I’ll have you know.” A warm smile curled his mouth when she laughed and Arthur kissed the top of her head. He liked making her laugh: it had been so long since she’d sounded so carefree and hearing her laugh now warmed his heart. He’d like to think Merlin would be happy, if he could see how far Ninianne had come since she’d fled from Camelot. Selfishly, he’d also like to think Merlin would be happy, if he could see how far Arthur had come since then. He still hadn’t reached a full recovery, and he’d long ago accepted that he might never recover fully, but he was a good distance from where he’d been at the beginning, though he found it hard to see at times. “I wish I could help with your training, but I’m terrible with a longbow. I don’t know how Merlin does it so well.”

“Maybe he uses magic!”

A warm laugh escaped Arthur, whose laughter grew still warmer when the magic twitched with indignation against his sternum. He wasn’t brave enough to move his hand far enough from the reins to press a consoling palm against the familiar bump under his coat and tunic. Arthur hoped the magic just knew, as it often knew, how he was feeling and what he wanted. He wanted the magic to know Ninianne was teasing; she hadn’t meant her words to be insulting. She and Arthur both knew Merlin had impressive skills with a longbow. Honestly, Merlin was exemplary, having often been cited as one of the finest archers in Albion. Arthur had often liked to watch him training, struggling not to bite his lip in appreciation at the strength in his arm as he drew back the string, arrow knocked and ready, his eyes focused on the target and glimmering with subtle danger. His stomach would tighten with desire as he’d watch Merlin.

Arthur used to wonder what it would be like to have those strong arms caging him as Merlin pressed him against the grass and various other surfaces durable enough to hold their combined weight. He used to wonder what it would be like to kiss his former master slowly, tenderly, sprawling under the sun at the height of summer, naked. Merlin would have used his magic to keep them both safe and unseen. His magic would have kept them unheard as well. Arthur would have buried his hands in raven hair. He’d have wrapped his thighs around his lover and let his hips start rocking, teasing and encouraging, until Merlin made deep and slow love to him. He no longer had to wonder about that part. He no longer had to wonder what it would feel like to have Merlin pressing inside him and claiming him or taking his mouth with tender passion.

“I doubt it! The adjudicator would have noticed the glow immediately,” Arthur answered when his laughter faded in favour of a dull ache in his chest as the absence of his other half rang through him. The magic pulsed against his sternum in response. “He’d have been disqualified for cheating years ago. Not to mention the fact that Bayard would never have allowed such a slight to their reputation.”

“True.” Ninianne glanced over her shoulder. “I never liked him much. I don’t think he liked me much either, but I don’t care about that. I care about Merlin and Merlin loved him so much. I don’t think that could be the case now.”

“You’d be surprised.” Arthur swallowed past the growing lump in his throat. “Part of Merlin still loved the man even after he learned how cruel Bayard could be. I...I don’t blame him for that. Merlin grew up around a different man.”

The pair fell silent and remained so until Dorchester loomed in the distance. The castle was small compared to the one he’d left that morning, but it stood proud and handsome over the town it guarded. A wide trench and wall surrounded the town and castle. Arthur let his gaze roam over them and then focused upon the numerous coloured tents being raised currently, his stomach knotting, his anxieties blooming within him as Hecate swept lower with a warm trill. Discomfort tightened his shoulders and then Hecate hit the grass not too far away, speed slowing, wings folding. Arthur dismounted quickly, his hands shaking as he pulled his cloak from one of the saddlebags as his men landed in quick succession. He fastened the clasp of his cloak before helping Ninianne dismount.

“You’re shaking,” Ninianne exclaimed in dismay, her expression crumpling with the strength of her concern. Her hand gripped his arm. “Are you alright?”

“I’m just a little anxious.” Arthur gave the young witch a strained smile as her concern intensified at his quiet admission. He’d grown much better at admitting his struggles since he’d started visiting Ansgar, but doing so still wasn’t easy, not when it came to the people he loved most. Not when it came to the people who depended on him. He gripped her shoulder and squeezed in an attempt to reassure her. “I’ll be better before you know it. I can handle whatever I’m determined to handle. Okay?”

“Okay,” Ninianne answered slowly, reluctantly, her concern lingering, but she pushed forward then and threw her arms around his middle. Arthur looked down at her and felt his smile grow warmer, more genuine. He hugged her back. “Just be careful!”

“I will.” Arthur ducked down and kissed her head before withdrawing; he directed a firm stare at Ninianne when she looked up at him. “You need to be careful as well. I want you to hide as soon as someone from Mercia makes an appearance...unless this person is someone you and I both trust. I’ll want you to come find me in that case. Is that understood?”

“Yes.” Ninianne nodded quickly, her expression firming with determination. She squared her shoulders and straightened until she reached her full height. “Hide unless I see Merlin or Tor. I’ll come find you. We’ll snatch them and then run for the hills before someone sees us.”

A bark of laughter escaped Arthur, whose chest flooded with warmth at the added comments. He loved this outrageous girl so much. He gripped her shoulder again and squeezed to show his appreciation for her honest humour before reaching for the saddle again. Arthur unstrapped his sword from the saddle and then strapped it to his belt surreptitiously, glancing around as his anxieties returned. He gripped the hilt to reassure himself before squaring his own shoulders and removing the miniature wooden shield bearing the familiar red emblem representing the House of De Bois from one of the saddlebags. He’d insisted on keeping it close to him when Freya offered to strap his trunk to her belt – just the thought of misplacing it made his spine ache with tension.

It was special.

“I earned the right to have this when I was young.” Merewald had raised the miniature shield in her hand when he’d joined her for lunch the previous day, her expression serious and prideful as he’d settled into the chair on the other side of the dining table. “Your grandfather believed this shield represented the household when he presented it to me. But that isn’t true. It stood for so much more than that. This shield represented the end of an era and the start of another: Cornish women hadn’t been allowed to become soldiers or archers or Knights or compete in tournaments until I challenged him in front of the court. He didn’t appreciate the joke he thought I was making, but he soon learned I wasn’t joking in the least.” She’d raised her chin in triumphant defiance and had set the shield down upon the table before sliding it over to him. “I want you to have it.”

“But you earned that.” Arthur had stared at the miniature shield for a moment before looking at his aunt. He’d shaken his head. “I can’t take it.”

“I want you to.” Merewald had captured his hand gently, her triumphant defiance fading away, leaving nothing but warmth in its wake. “You’ve been fighting so hard to get to this point and I’m so proud of you. Arthur, you deserve to have this. You deserve the chance to start your own era. That era doesn’t have to start today, tomorrow, or even over the next year, but I want you to keep this shield with you as a reminder that you can do whatever you put your mind to.”

“But I don’t need to start a new era. You’re still here.”

“Honestly, I think I’ve done all I can with this realm. Cornwall has become as progressive as I could make it and it still falls short. I know you can do so much better, Arthur, when you feel able. You’re magnetic. I’ve seen how people swarm around you – and it isn’t to ridicule you or beat you to a pulp this time. You’re kind and charming, honest and hardworking, and your future people can see that you’ll represent them better than I ever could. Your future people listen to you with an eagerness never shown to me and I don’t blame them. You’ll make a wonderful King.”

“Your Majesty,” Arthur had exclaimed sharply, his heart thumping in his chest at the thought of what her words could have meant. He’d itched to start fiddling with his ancestral ring to relieve the building tension in his hands. “Don’t you think this discussion is a little premature? You have several decades of your reign remaining, after all.”

Merewald had smiled at him in answer, the expression soft and loving, and had reached across the table to capture his hand. She’d given it a warm squeeze.

“Just take the emblem with you and think about it.”  


	46. Chapter Forty-Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter was a roller-coaster of emotions. Hopefully, it'll be the same for you folks. 
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think!

Arthur gripped the miniature shield tightly, his knuckles whitening, but held on to the encouraging words his aunt had spoken to him the previous afternoon. He could do whatever he put his mind to. He could accomplish whatever he wanted as long as he kept his scraps of courage in reach. It didn’t matter that he was anxious: he was allowed to feel that way, even after the long and painful months he’d spent training, building up his muscle strength and stamina and general fitness. He was stronger than he’d ever been. He could do this. His broad shoulders squaring, Arthur approached the desk separating the various tents raised from the arena not too far away, and cleared his throat before setting the shield and the entrance fee down in front of the waiting clerk.

“Name?” The clerk reached for his quill and dipped it in the nearest inkwell before pausing with an enviable amount of poise. He never glanced up for even a moment. Arthur found not being scrutinised eased his nerves somewhat. “What house do you represent?”

“Arthur Pendragon.” His anxieties intensified all over again when the clerk stiffened at the mention of his name. A cold pulse of fear rippled through him as the young man raised his head at last and then ebbed somewhat when incredulous disbelief washed across his face. Arthur refrained from shuffling, his awkwardness mounting, but managed to continue in an even voice. “I’m representing the House of De Bois.”

“I heard you were dead.”

“Then you’ve been misinformed.” Arthur forced himself to reach his full height and arched an eyebrow expectantly, glancing at the parchment waiting. Relief washed through him when the incredulous disbelief morphed into a beaming smile as the clerk added his name and household to the list of participants. “Who told you I was dead?”

“No one ever heard what happened to you after the siege in Camelot.” The clerk gave him a long and considering look. He plucked the few coins Arthur had set down from the table and slipped them into a secure chest at his side. “I suppose people just assumed the worst when word of you stopped spreading through the realms. But I’m relieved the worst isn’t true and the Queen will be too. I’ll have to let her know you’re here. She’ll be pleased to know she was right about you all along!”

“You’re relieved?” Arthur blinked in surprise and glanced around before leaning in closer, his heart hammering, something akin to excitement starting to pump through his veins as the clerk reached for a second sheet of parchment and started composing a missive to the Queen of Wessex. His voice adopted a conspiratorial tone. “Are you a Druid?”

“Most of the people working for the Queen are.” Handsome brown eyes lined with kohl and shadowed with shimmering gold powder flicked upwards. A warm smile curled his plush mouth. The clerk folded the missive and the faintest murmur of the old tongue flooded his eyes with gold an instant before the missive vanished amid a burst of violet flames. “Wessex has kept powerful ties with the Old Religion over the centuries. Our Queen even went through training under the High Priestesses when she was younger, Your Highness. You should expect a summons tonight: she’ll want to speak with you before the tournament starts in the morning.”

“I’ll look forward to it then.” Arthur turned away, unable to contain the hopeful grin at the prospect of building possible allies for the future. He’d need them when the time came to unite the various realms of Albion under his banner. He focused on the warm thrum of magic against his sternum to keep himself grounded lest he lose himself to thoughts of that distant and exquisite future. “Thank you.”

“Your Highness?” An uncertain expression washed over the young man’s face when Arthur glanced over his shoulder, donning an expectant expression that he’d practiced since accepting his duties as Crown Prince of Cornwall. “I’d recommend avoiding the contingent from Camelot and Mercia. One of them didn’t look pleasant in the least.”

His breath caught in his throat. A vine of fear enveloped him and squeezed until he couldn’t breathe. Sweat broke out on his skin. The magic pulsed against his sternum and Arthur managed to drag in a reluctant breath before turning to face the clerk fully, a grave expression concealing the fear that threatened to root him to the spot.

“Tell me who.” Arthur managed to keep the tremor out of his voice through sheer force of will as he stepped closer, almost towering over the desk and the young man seated behind it. The clerked swallowed and Arthur realised the man was unnerved and perhaps a little intimidated. He took an immediate step back in a show of consideration and understanding; Arthur wasn’t fond of feeling trapped either. “Tell me who came to represent Camelot and Mercia.”

“Give me a moment.” The clerk started searching through various sheaves of parchment until he made a triumphant noise. His eyes combed the list and then rose to fasten upon Arthur, who forced himself to keep breathing, forced himself not to bolt back to his armed escort and his sister, who were ensuring that the hippogriffs were cared for and his own tent prepared for the tournament. Arthur forced himself not to flee from the tournament grounds and then from Wessex: he had duties to attend to and he couldn’t leave until he’d at least made a decent attempt to win the tournament – the entrance fee had been paid and there was no turning back now, not without tarnishing the reputation of Cornwall. “Normally, Emrys represents the House of Bayard whenever Wessex hosts a tournament. We haven’t seen him in a long while – almost two years – and it isn’t surprising, given what happened to him. Two Knights from Camelot and Mercia arrived together instead: Sir Tor Sheppard and Sir Jeffrey Webster, both of whom will be representing the House of Bayard in the tournament.”

His ears started ringing.

Arthur blinked and struggled to focus on the alarmed clerk as panic flooded through him in a hot wave that had him gripping the desk before his knees could buckle. Several agonising moments passed before Arthur regained some semblance of control over his emotions and the automatic responses of his body, his chest heaving as he dragged in one breath and then another.

He released the desk.

A faint tremor ran through him before Arthur managed to raise his chin and say, “The second man mustn’t learn I’m here unless no choice remains. Don’t even let someone describe me near him. That man would see me dead in a heartbeat.”

“What about the other man?” The threatening spark of magic that made an appearance comforted Arthur somewhat. He managed a faint smile in response despite the panic still pumping through his veins. “Is there something I could do about him?”

“Could you send a discreet message to him without the other man finding out?”

“That can be arranged. It would be our pleasure to help you.”

A hopeful nervousness overcame the panic coursing through him for a moment or two. Arthur glanced around again and managed a small breath of relief that no one was watching, listening, lurking and waiting to catch him as soon he left the desk. He looked back at the clerk and swallowed. Just the thought of seeing one of the men who’d loved him when he’d lived in Camelot sent nervous butterflies fluttering through his stomach. He couldn’t imagine how Sir Tor might react to seeing him again after all this time. But he wanted to find out as soon as possible.

“Tell him: I’ll be waiting for him in the tent bearing a red gryphon.”

Arthur turned away, doing his best to ignore the tremble running down his spine as magic surged around him and created an addition to his cloak: a deep hood that settled over his hair at once. Excitement and fear coursed through him as he hastened back to his armed escort. His heart thumped in his chest. He could feel the cold sweat building, but it didn’t matter: he just needed to reach his sister and his men as soon as possible. He needed to debrief them on what he’d learned from the clerk. Arthur just hoped the tent was raised before he reached them. He wasn’t fond of being out in the open for too long while his childhood tormentor was lurking around somewhere.

Part of him couldn’t believe the man had been knighted. Part of him didn’t want to believe. Another larger part of him wasn’t surprised in the least. Knowing a man so callous and merciless had been given a position of such power and respect terrified him. Arthur quickened his pace and almost tripped in his haste to reach his most trusted allies. He spotted Ninianne along the way, snared her arm and pulled her along, telling her to hush when she made to complain. She didn’t question the command when she saw his face and did her best to match his speed. It wasn’t long until the pair burst into the tent to find Freya setting his armour and hauberk out on the table – which had been packed for his use during the tournament.

His sister had blood on her hands from skinning a brace of rabbits.

“Arthur,” Morgana exclaimed in sudden alarm as he wrenched the flaps of the tent closed and started shaking, his fear almost palpable. His hand rose to unclasp his cloak and it fell in a pristine heap around his feet. Morgana dropped her skinning knife and her eyes flared gold an instant before the blood staining her hands vanished. She darted around the second table and caught him before his knees buckled. The magic in his crystal grabbed a chair and hauled it through the air, settling it behind him as Morgana lowered him with gentle care. Her hands framed his face as Morgana encouraged him to focus upon her, her voice gentling, her gaze warm and tender with concern. “What happened? Are you alright?”

“Men from Camelot and Mercia are here.” His voice sounded strained even to his own ears. “Sir Tor is one of them. Jeffrey is another; Bayard knighted him in our absence.”

The outraged exclamation from Ninianne managed to earn a faint smile when Arthur glanced at her, grateful for the obvious umbrage she took at the notion of his knighthood. It warmed him to see the same outrage twisting familiar features when Arthur returned his attention to his sister, who released his face and had to swallow back her blatant fury, her hands curling into fists.

“I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him before that bastard gets a hand on you!” Morgana stormed past him after the furious and urgent whisper escaped her and Arthur was too slow to rise from the chair to catch her. It was Freya that stopped her in the end. An odd fusion of fear and relief churned within him when the maidservant took a few powerful strides and pounced on Morgana like an irate feline. She collided with the witch with force enough to bring them both to the grass amid a flail of limbs. Arthur would have sworn he’d heard a faint growl. “Get off me!”

“Arthur,” Freya huffed as she struggled against the strength of her mistress and the years of training she’d undergone. Her eyes had turned a deep green. The runes on her collar were glowing, a blatant reminder of the beast lingering beneath the surface. It seemed as though it was the beast alone that helped Freya keep Morgana from leaving the tent and finding Jeffrey, one of the people Morgana had come to hate the most. She’d confessed to despising him when she was young, but that emotion had turned into something twice as powerful when she’d seen how Arthur would suffer whenever painful and traumatic memories rushed to the surface and plagued him. Usually, an hour of meditation helped clear those memories and emotions away, but sometimes meditating wasn’t as successful. Sometimes his emotions just needed to escape. One such occasion had resulted in an inexplicable burst of rage and broken ornaments and furniture as Arthur had torn through his chambers like a storm before slumping in an exhausted heap that Morgana had to coax up from the floor after witnessing his fit of temper. She’d been soft and understanding, so gentle. Arthur had been too drained to feel humiliated as he’d cried against her neck while Morgana ran a soothing hand between his shoulders. She’d put him to bed after he’d almost drifted off in her embrace and Tom had been waiting when he woke up: it had been obvious that Morgana had sent for his adoptive father and then left Arthur under more familiar guardianship to spare him a measure of humiliation when he woke. That incident seemed distant now as Arthur watched Morgana and Freya struggle against each other. “A helping hand would be nice!”

Arthur hastened out of his chair, his heart hammering, but the struggle with Morgana managed to put thoughts of his tormentor out of his mind for a moment. He crossed the grass and helped Freya squash his sister down against the ground before she could wriggle free and escape from the tent.

“You can’t kill Jeffrey,” Arthur ordered in an aggravated manner, though an almost miniscule part of him remained uncertain how such a thing could be a terrible idea. The rest of him knew, however, that he couldn’t create a realm of peace and justice in the future when some hypocritical part of his mind wanted to entertain the idea of eradicating someone that he didn’t like in the present. It would make him no better than Bayard. His anger and pain at the thought of either man wasn’t reason enough to sink to their level. He wanted to be better. He wanted to be better than the people that abused him all his life. He wanted to be someone Merlin and Merewald would be proud of. He wanted to be someone his future subjects would respect and admire. He wanted to be someone that might have earned approval from the mother and uncle he’d never had the chance to know. But at least he’d been given a brief glimpse of Tristan. He hadn’t been so fortunate when it came to his mother. “It’ll be better to leave him return to Camelot unharmed. Bayard would just grow suspicious and send men down here to ask questions. Or worse: he’d accuse Sir Tor of having a hand in it. I won’t stand for that!”

“But –”

“No killing,” Arthur snapped sharply, his grip tightening where he pinned her arm against the grass as Morgana struggled even harder. His knee pressed hard against the small of her back. “I don’t care how much he hurt me in the past or how much he’d like to hurt me in the future: it doesn’t give you the right to end his life whenever you wish. If that bastard is to pay, then he’ll do so through legal means when Bayard is deposed! Is that understood?”

“But –”

“Is that understood?” The question came out harder this time and deeper, his voice almost rough with confidence and command. Magic thrummed against his sternum in encouragement. Morgana struggled for a moment more and then slumped in defeat. She nodded reluctantly, her expression still a mask of fury, but she didn’t lunge to escape when Arthur and Freya withdrew. Arthur drew in one calm breath and then another, rising to his feet rapidly, the altercation with Morgana having flooded him with a burst of much needed confidence in the wake of what he’d learned from the clerk. “Thank you for listening, now get up. We knew something like this might happen before we even arrived. Where are the men? Are the hippogriffs being cared for?”

“The men are securing shelter and food for the hippogriffs in the town as we speak and will return soon enough. I’m just glad the two are observant and discreet after the years spent hunting the Questing Beast.”

Morgana climbed to her feet and gave him a disparaging stare as she rubbed a hand over the small of her back. Arthur feigned innocence and turned away, his shoulders squaring, his spine straightening. Magic pulsed against his sternum. He strode across the grass and collected his chair, bringing it over to the table covered in armour, and settled down in it. He cleared a small space on the table and willed the magic to summon parchment and ink and a quill from the luggage he’d brought with him. He started sketching a map of the grounds he’d seen from the air, making note of the various tents and the colours associated to households he knew from memory, highlighting those allied with Camelot and Mercia. He made no attempt to include Nemeth among those. While the alliance between the realms was strong, it was so because of the strong friendship between Merlin and Mithian. He had no doubt that the alliance would disintegrate immediately, if Mithian and King Rodor learned what Bayard had done to Merlin. He’d have to speak to their representatives before the tournament drew to a close and discern how deep their knowledge ran.

“I want you and Freya to take Ninianne and find the men.” Arthur looked up at his sister, his expression calm and commanding, expectant. Magic summoned a chest filled with his own person funds – a stipend he’d earned since accepting his position as Crown Prince of Cornwall – and a number of purses. He filled them almost to bursting. “Find the inn and rent two rooms for yourselves. Use whatever means possible to start gathering information about Jeffrey, about those allied to the King, and start plotting possible escape routes should the worst happen.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’ll be waiting here. I’ve sent word to Sir Tor.”

“I want to stay,” Ninianne said excitedly, her face lighting up at the prospect of seeing the Knight of Camelot and Mercia again. “I want to see Sir Tor!”

“I’ll make sure you see him more than once before the tournament is over,” Arthur promised as he beckoned the young witch closer, his mouth curling in a warm smile as she came nearer. He captured her hands and squeezed them gently, reassuringly, but went on to say, “He loved me a lot when we were still in Camelot. He loved me like I love your brother and he’ll need this moment more than either of us. Do you understand?”

“I understand.” Ninianne nodded her head despite the air of disappointment that settled around her. She threw her arms around him in a tight hug and buried her face against his shoulder. Her eyes were wet when she drew away, but she wasn’t weeping. Her voice choked up a little. “Tell him that I miss him and that I can’t wait to see him.”

“I’ll tell him.” Arthur softened further at the sight of her emotions and leaned forward to press a kiss against her forehead. He slid his hands up to grip her shoulders and gave another reassuring squeeze. “But I’m sure he knows that much already, Ninianne. I’m sure he misses you just as much. Who wouldn’t? You’re a wonderful young lady, and it is more than privilege to know you.”

Her eyes still watering, Ninianne smiled at Arthur and ducked in to press a grateful kiss against his cheek. Arthur beamed at her, his face warming, pleased that he’d managed to cheer her up somewhat. He watched her dart over to his sister, who rested a firm and guiding hand on her shoulder, and then smiled at Freya as she gathered the purses and the parchment covered in the notes he’d made. He watched them leave and then sighed heavily, feeling his fears and anxieties return as those depending upon his confidence and commanding presence vacated the tent at last. Arthur rose from his chair and started pacing, his shoulders tightening, wondering when Sir Tor would make an appearance.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been pacing, the magic resting against his sternum thrumming, but he froze at the sound of footsteps approaching at speed. His hand reached for the hilt of his sword and then hesitated a moment before a man burst through the entrance of the tent. Sir Tor was familiar, but the murderous grief on his scarred face wasn’t familiar in the least. Arthur didn’t have a chance to even croak his name before he was being slammed down against the nearest table. He stilled at the press of lethal steel against his neck. He stared up at Sir Tor, his eyes watering, his spine screaming in protest.

“Who are you? Who do you work for?”

“You know who I am! I work for the Cornish people!”

“Prove that you’re who you claim to be.” The dark snarl of murderous rage in his voice terrified Arthur, whose heart started thumping. His throat constricted. His lungs started seizing as steel pressed even harder against his throat. Hard muscle pressed from his shoulders to his hips and between his thighs as Sir Tor threatened his groin with a powerful knee. A muscle in his own calf twitched and started cramping, earning a strangled moan of pain when it continued to worsen without immediate attention. “Tell me something Arthur and I alone would know.”

“You kissed me.” Arthur stared up at Sir Tor, one tear sliding down his cheek and then another, the words escaping him on a ragged whisper. He almost choked on a sob as he continued to provide evidence to support his claims. “When Merlin came back from the Forest of Balor, you kissed me after I started recovering from being poisoned. You were the first person to ever kiss me and no one can take that from you – not even Merlin.”

Sir Tor wrenched himself away, the lethal dagger toppling from his grasp. He staggered back a step and then another, his scarred face crumpling, the murderous edge of his grief evaporating as the man fell to his knees. He broke down in an instant. Arthur heaved himself up from the table with a grunt of pain and stared at Sir Tor, whose powerful shoulders hunched over, face buried in his hands as the broken sounds of his grief crossed the distance between them. He tackled his own cramping calf for an agonizing moment and then stumbled over to Sir Tor, dropping to his knees before him and pulling his hands down from his face. He was almost desperate to understand what had happened just a moment ago – what made Sir Tor turn wild enough to attack the man he’d claimed to love before breaking down like this.

“Talk to me. What happened to make you act like that?”

“I thought you were dead.” The words were strangled and broken. Sir Tor stared at him like he was the most exquisite and heartbreaking thing in the whole world as those tears continued to fall. His scarred face was ashen behind the tear stains. His hand shook as the Knight reached out and ran his fingers over his hair, as though assuring himself that Arthur wasn’t going to disappear the moment he closed his eyes or did something else of that nature. His eyes squeezed shut in pain and relief and then snapped back open. Sir Tor looked down and then away, almost choking on a sob and running a hand over his scarred face. He looked at Arthur again and continued talking, pushing the words out with blatant force. “Merlin thinks you’re dead. We’ve been mourning you for almost two years.”

“What?” Arthur drew back in surprise first and then drained of colour, remembering the Druid that had taken his appearance during his flight from Camelot. Nausea churned his stomach. His voice hardened like stone. “Tell me what happened.”

“Merlin regained some semblance of himself when you escaped the citadel.” Sir Tor drew in a shaking breath and Arthur captured his hand immediately, squeezing in reassurance. His friend squeezed back almost hard enough to hurt Arthur, but he didn’t mind much. It wasn’t as important as understanding what happened in Camelot after he’d fled to Cornwall. “I helped him plan a coup against the King for almost a month. We’d just finished and hidden such plans and had sat down with some wine to celebrate when the King burst into the chamber and tossed a sack onto the table. A trail of blood followed the sack as it rolled across the table toward us and Merlin opened it himself.”

Arthur closed his eyes in immediate understanding, bile rising, not quite able to imagine how Merlin might have reacted to the sight of his severed head in a sack. Not quite wanting to imagine it. Swallowing, Arthur threw his arms around Sir Tor, crushing him close and letting the man vent his emotions against his neck. He never once let go. Arthur rocked his friend gently, but said nothing, knowing speech would be useless. Nothing was quite as powerful as a warm and comforting embrace combined with the release of contained emotions and he knew that from experience. He held him until Sir Tor went limp with exhaustion and then helped the Knight settle against him more comfortably, using his own frame to support him.

“What happened then?”

“Merlin almost fell over his own chair in his haste to scramble back. He looked as though he’d been ripped in two. I’d never seen him suffer such agony, not even when his magic had been taken away, and the denial on his tongue was heartbreaking. He’d drawn his sword between one moment and the next and had thrown himself at the King, swearing he’d kill him. Swearing he’d tear him apart for what he’d done.” His voice grew quiet and hesitant – as though he were about to impart something terrible. Sir Tor drew away, forcing himself to his feet and putting distance between himself and Arthur. He trembled all the while. He kept his face hidden from view. “I...I had to stop Merlin. I had to stop him or all that we’d planned would have meant nothing; he’d have died during that blinding rush of emotion or he’d have been executed later for attempting to kill the King. His exiled people depended upon him as a beacon of hope and his death would’ve robbed them of that. I couldn’t let that happen – not even to avenge you. Not even to ease the murderous grief that burned through me then. I stopped him from making that terrible mistake and Merlin has suffered the consequences since. I haven’t seen him in almost two years: the King confined him to his chambers and has forbidden all from visiting, but for a select few.”

Arthur recognised and understood the sheer amount of guilt and shame that must have been coursing through him in that moment – the same sentiments that had gnawed through him when he’d been forced to flee without Merlin and Sir Tor. He rose to his feet and closed the distance between them. He touched a shaking shoulder and choked out a gasp when Sir Tor whirled to face him in an instant.

“Tell me you hate me.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Tell me!”

“Tor,” Arthur whispered raggedly, clutching the black doublet in front of him. Sir Tor was dressed in black from neck to toe – in mourning clothes. How on earth could Arthur be expected to hate such a man? Such a thing was impossible. “I can’t tell you that because it isn’t true. I don’t hate you. I could never hate you. I care about you too much!”

Sir Tor choked on his name and then hauled him closer, his mouth hot and hard and desperate as he kissed Arthur, who stiffened with surprise. Arthur felt a pinch and then a burning sting a moment before he shoved the Knight back a step.

“I’m sorry,” Sir Tor croaked less than a moment later, realising what he’d done and regretting it in an instant. He took another step back and then another, gripping his hair with one shaking hand. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“I’m not angry,” Arthur answered calmly, running the back of his hand over his stinging mouth. Crimson stained his skin. The tang of copper invaded his mouth and throat as he swallowed. “You’re grieving. I know how powerful our emotions can be. But you should have asked me first.”

A push of his will had the magic in his crystal flaring, earning an amazed stare from Sir Tor, who watched the golden miasma sweep across his mouth and heal him. He licked the residual blood away, swallowed the last taste of copper, and then reached for the man that hurt him in his fervour as the magic returned to the crystal without prompting, a serene pulse of encouragement warming his sternum. He wrapped his arms around powerful shoulders and pressed close against him in a crushing embrace. Sir Tor hesitated before returning it. His arms were warm and welcome around Arthur, who buried his face into his neck.

“I still don’t hate you.”

“But you should. I hate me.”

“I know that feeling,” Arthur admitted quietly, withdrawing just enough to look him in the eye. He cupped that scarred and familiar face with a gentle hand. “But I don’t blame you for making a difficult decision. I had to do the same in the past. Did you think it was easy, leaving you both in Camelot when I did? I’ve struggled to come to terms with that decision for so long, Tor, so how could I blame you for doing what you did? I’m not that insensitive.”

“You never were that insensitive.” Sir Tor managed one of his stiff smiles despite the obvious tremor still running through him and Arthur looked away, his face warming, not unlike the reactions such smiles used to earn in Camelot. His hand fell to clutch the black doublet again. Trembling fingers traced his blush and then encouraged him to look at Sir Tor again. “But you’re twice as beautiful as I remember.”

“I think your eyesight has just worsened.”

Sir Tor chuckled at his answer, his stiff smile broadening, his scarred face growing even tauter. His eyes searched his face. Arthur bit his lip and felt his blush turn scorching under the scrutiny, spreading across his face. The arm still wrapped around him tightened a fraction as Sir Tor leaned closer, whispering, “Can I kiss you? Please?”

Arthur swallowed and urged the magic to give him a sign. A phantom hand pressed against the small of his back a moment later and gave him a gentle nudge of encouragement.


	47. Chapter Forty-Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, folks.
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think!

Arthur spent the afternoon with Sir Tor, curled up on the white cloak he’d spread across the grass and exchanging kisses. It wasn’t a passionate moment. It wasn’t deep or desperate or clinging, but remained soft and warm and tender now that the sharp fervour of discovering that Arthur still lived had passed. It was comforting to press close and wrap their arms around each other. Sir Tor couldn’t stop looking at him and running gentle hands over him to assure himself that this was real. That Arthur wasn’t some figment of his stressed imagination. Arthur didn’t mind the caressing much as he started talking, telling him that Ninianne was with him and that the others were safe and well in Cornwall.

“Ninianne misses you.”

“I want to see her as soon as possible. I haven’t been able to stop thinking and fretting and wondering whether she and the others were safe for so long.” Sir Tor pressed their brows together and squeezed his eyes shut. He inhaled deeply, slowly, and hummed in appreciation. It was as though the man intended to memorise his scent. “I couldn’t catch wind of them. It was as though the lot of them had vanished without a trace. I dreaded the thought of knowing Merlin would never see them again. He’d been through so much already; I couldn’t bear the thought of him losing even the last of those he’d loved with all his heart.”

“I imagine that was because of me.” Arthur frowned in contemplation and nibbled at his bottom lip. “Merewald didn’t want word of our presence in Cornwall to spread across the border, in case word reached one of his allies and Bayard came after me. She’d forbidden the merchants and travellers from speaking of them. She kept them safe all this time. She didn’t have to go to as much effort with me: Bayard had a powerful sorcerer place an enchantment on me when he claimed Camelot for himself. I can be mentioned in conversation to those who know about me already, but never to those who don’t. Bayard has to introduce me to someone new or I have to. No one else can do it without almost getting strangled to death at the hands of some unseen assailant. I’ve been testing the enchantment all over the realm just to be sure. Merewald has never invited those allied with Bayard to Cornwall even for a moment. Most of our visitors come from Hibernia or even from the continent.”

“I couldn’t be more relieved to hear it.” Sir Tor squeezed him closer, pressing against him from shoulder to hips. His warmth comforted Arthur as their legs tangled together. “I couldn’t bear to see you hurt. Not again. Father had to knock me out to stop me from helping you escape that morning, you know, and I was furious with him when I came to. But he knew I’d be needed in Camelot. He knew I’d be needed to help keep the people safe while Merlin and his magic were out of action.”

“Nothing hurt more than leaving,” Arthur answered quietly, shuffling forward to nuzzle his face. The emotions from that long ago morning surged to the surface and he had to swallow past the growing lump in his throat. Memories flickered through his head. He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain of them. “I tried to get inside the castle and reach the pair of you. I tried so hard. You must know I never wanted to leave without you and Merlin! I should have written to you as soon as I was safe from the King, but I wasn’t sound of mind for a long time. Then I was just too afraid that he’d find one and send some assassin after me.”

“You were wise to be afraid.” Sir Tor pressed a soft kiss against his cheek and then another against the corner of his eye before nuzzling his face in return. He released a sigh that seemed so heavy, so miserable and stressed. Arthur wanted to make such emotions evaporate at once. He missed the sound of his good cheer as Sir Tor and Merlin sparred together, the pair of them quick and clever, throwing so much strength into each swing of their lethal blades. “The King has been hunting those who turned against him since that morning, Arthur, and has even gone so far as to decree that all letters to and from the household have to go through him first. Nobles walk a dangerous line each day, especially those whose children were mages and fled with the common folk. The lot of them are terrified that an unexpected letter will bring the law crashing down upon their heads.”

Arthur shuddered in understanding, but said nothing, choosing instead to shuffle down and press his face against a strong shoulder. Gentle lips grazed the top of his head. He wasn’t sure how long he luxuriated in such attentions from Sir Tor, but blushed when his stomach grumbled with hunger and remembered that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He glanced up to see a faint smile making those familiar scars grow taut.

“I can cook something, if you’d like.” A small smile curled his mouth when the Knight traced his blush with a gentle finger again. “Morgana caught some rabbits earlier and I could do with a bite to eat.”

“I’ll help you.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to. I like having something to do. It stops me from thinking,” Sir Tor explained quietly, and Arthur didn’t protest after that. He understood the need for distractions. Arthur rose to his feet instead and offered a hand. He pulled Sir Tor to his feet and the pair worked together, the former darting outside to get a campfire going with the aid of magic and the latter skinning a second rabbit. Magic concealed Arthur and the campfire: it ensured no one would see him or the flames or even smell the smoke that rose into the air. No one would hear the crackle of the campfire. No one would find him unless he wanted to be found. It wasn’t long until Sir Tor joined him and the magic enveloped him as well. He sat down opposite Arthur, and watched with amazement as the magic plucked the skinned rabbits from his grasp and held them over the fire. “I didn’t know you could use magic.”

“I can’t.” Arthur offered a warm smile and reached down under his coat and tunic to withdraw the crystal. He used the cord to hold it up and watched it twirl in a circle for a moment or two. “But Merlin could and our souls are bound together. His magic is with me now.”

“I thought the King took that!”

“He did.” His smile grew warmer and he looked away, watching the rabbits turn over the flames under the tight control of magic. Arthur tucked the crystal back under his tunic and coat. He welcomed the warm pulse of the magic still lingering within. “Morgana broke into the castle and stole it back for me. I’ve worn it ever since.”  

Sir Tor cheered up even more after that announcement. He started questioning Arthur, who answered each one with a warm smile and quiet commentary, discussing his training regime and his sailing lessons with enthusiasm. Arthur even discussed the studies he’d taken upon himself. Sir Tor stared at him like he couldn’t learn enough about him. He stared at him as though all the new and different facets of his life were important. Arthur couldn’t help but react to such blatant regard and shuffled closer, moving around the campfire until he could feel a different sort of warmth just grazing his side. He closed his eyes when an arm slipped around him and tilted his head until it met a strong shoulder. Sir Tor squeezed him closer and didn’t let go until the rabbits were done roasting, and even then Arthur was reluctant to move away, wanting nothing more than to savour his warmth for as long as possible.

“I should head back.” Sir Tor rose after wiping the grease from his hands on the grass and knocking a few lose blades from his palms. His voice carried blatant reluctance. “I don’t want him getting suspicious and coming to look for me. I know the King sent him to watch me in case I tried to speak with the Nemetian representatives. The reason I was able to come looking for you at all is because the clerk promised that bastard would be distracted for as long as it took.”

“Okay,” Arthur answered quietly, rising to his feet. Magic reacted to his will and doused the campfire before hiding all the evidence in quick succession. No one would even know he’d been eating there at all. He stepped closer. Hope blossomed inside him. “Can I see you tomorrow?”

“You don’t have to ask. I’d have come without prompting.” Sir Tor gave him a sheepish smile and gazed at Arthur, his eyes warm and soft with appreciation and so much affection. He reached out and trailed strong fingers over his blond hair with a tenderness that made his eyes water and Arthur looked away, his own nervous fingers starting to fiddle with his ancestral ring, remembering how it felt to hope that something might arise from the kindness Sir Tor showed him in Camelot. He remember how it felt to hope that their first kiss might lead to something more. Something he’d never had before. Arthur knew such a thing wasn’t possible now, though he didn’t regret his devotion to Merlin. He could never regret his devotion to his lover, no matter what paths his life might have taken under other circumstances. His head cleared as Sir Tor spoke again and Arthur focused upon the conversation shared between them once more. “Good luck in the first round tomorrow. I hope you’ll kick some arse.”

“Thank you.” Arthur looked up at Sir Tor, smiling, blinking the wetness out of existence without acknowledging it much. He drew in a calming breath and allowed himself a small and somewhat self-deprecating chuckle. “I’m sure I’ll need more luck than you ever would. You’re good at fighting, Tor, so good. I used to love watching you and Merlin sparring; it was entertaining, if nothing else.”

“We all need a little luck sometimes.” Sir Tor cupped his face then and leaned in to press a kiss against his cheek. It was quick and short and warm. He pressed another against the bridge of his nose. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

Arthur watched him walk a few paces and then turn right around to come back. His strong arms crushed him close for a breathless moment and then Sir Tor darted away, his head down and his hands balled into fists. He watched him go all over again and the man didn’t come back this time. Arthur slipped back into the tent and spent a moment just breathing, his stomach fluttering, his heart pounding, and then started sorting through the information he’d gleaned as he crossed the grass and sat at the table covered in armour. He summoned his journal to him and started writing almost at once.

 

_Midsummer and a Day, 536 AD – almost two years since I left you:_

_I was right to be concerned about you all these months. The thought of you being imprisoned sets me alight with rage and yet I can do nothing, nothing but bide time until I’m ready, and who knows when that will be? Who knows when I’ll have the skill and confidence to break the doors down and tear your uncle apart for what he continues to put you through?_

_I hope that time comes soon. You deserve to be as free and safe as I am. You deserve to be surrounded with love and support. I’m afraid to imagine how you must be suffering in the chambers that were once our secret sanctuary, our private home where love and hope flourished under the nose of your uncle. I’m afraid to imagine the loneliness and despair you must be feeling and thus recognise the same darkness that lives within me. You don’t deserve that darkness. You don’t deserve endless imprisonment and isolation from all those who would help you. I’ll make it stop. I won’t rest until you’re safe in Cornwall with me. I know Sir Tor would help me and Mithian as well – as soon as she learns the truth._

_I’m certain Mithian knows nothing of what happened to you. Sir Tor said your uncle decreed all the letters to and from the household must go through him first and that is a powerful indicator that all letters that would turn such strong allies against him would be burnt at once. I know Mithian would have helped you immediately, if she’d known about what your uncle did to you. I witnessed the strength of your friendship while I was in Camelot and I know she would never forsake you – not even for the sake of an alliance between her realm and yours._

_I must have a brief discussion with Merewald first and then I’ll talk to the Nemetian representatives before the tournament draws to a close. I’ll have them deliver a message to the Nemetian King on our behalf. I’ll invite Mithian to visit Cornwall after lughnasadh while doing so and we’ll begin the process of forging an alliance as soon as possible. We’ll keep the visit and negotiations as secret as possible and your uncle won’t know what hit him until he finds their alliance has dissolved while he wasn’t looking, which is far less than he deserves after all the atrocious acts he has committed. I’ll take his allies one at a time until he has none left and he won’t know I’m to blame until nothing can be done about it._

_He’ll have no choice but to accept defeat._

Arthur set down his quill and rose from his chair, reaching behind him and rubbing the small of his back. Writing in his journal earned faint aches all the time. He wondered whether he ought to consider it a sign that he was aging faster than he’d like. His reflection often liked to remind him that he was getting older, now approaching thirty, and he remained unwed. It was unusual for a Crown Prince to be unwed at his age. It was even more unusual for a monarch not to push their heir to marry, but he knew Merewald would never do such a thing, not after her own experiences as the child of a King. She’d learned her lesson. She wasn’t going to force him to wed someone he could never love and Arthur appreciated that fact so much. He appreciated the fact that he wasn’t going to be trapped in a loveless marriage and bedding someone for whom he felt nothing, nothing but resentment and anger, perhaps even hatred.

Shaking his head clear, Arthur sourced a whetstone and cloth from his luggage and started sharpening his sword. His blade was sharp already, but he wanted to ensure the edges were lethal. He knew there was a chance he’d face his childhood tormentor in the arena and he wasn’t going to be caught with a dulled blade: if given the opportunity, Arthur knew the bastard wouldn’t hesitate to impale him in front of the spectators and his loved ones. So he ran the whetstone over the edges again and again. He lost himself in the slide of stone against steel and then lost himself in exquisite memory, remembering his first fumbled attempts to sharpen a sword and Merlin settling behind him to show him how. Just remembering it earned a small smile and a shiver of pleasure. He remembered the stress he’d been in even as he’d welcomed the touch without open acknowledgement. He’d often let such illicit touches linger in the past when he shouldn’t have.

Arthur started polishing his sword once he was finished sharpening it and thought about his lover, about Merlin imprisoned in the same rooms where he and Arthur had shared the ghosts of kisses and powerful embraces and numerous tender moments. It seemed like an excessive kind of torture to confine a man to the same space where he’d lived with the one whose severed head he’d seen on the table in front of him. Such a punishment was cruel and unnecessary, and it broke his heart to think about it. It broke his heart to think of Merlin remembering their treasured memories and weeping, unable to get that cruel and vicious sight out of his head.

Such a sight would have broken Arthur entirely, given that he was unable to stop thinking of Merlin as it was. He couldn’t bear the thought of seeing his severed head each time he closed his eyes. He couldn’t bear the thought of seeing lifeless blue eyes staring through him and pale skin void of all vitality, turning grey, drained of blood and life and that beautiful soul he’d fallen in love with. His hand stilled as his heart clenched painfully, Arthur bowing his head and almost choking on the sob that rose unbidden. He set the sword and cloth down and rose from his chair, wrapping his arms around himself. He wasn’t fool enough to continue polishing his sword when his vision was starting to blur, unwanted tears welling, his frame tightening with the force of his emotions. He forced himself to draw in a shaking breath and hold it inside him before releasing it slowly, tremulously, and then repeated the cycle until some measure of calm came over him.

Breaking down would help no one.

Arthur knew he needed to keep a level head for as long as possible. One of the most vital steps in his growing plan was to survive the tournament now that his childhood tormentor would be competing against him. Naturally, he’d prefer to win the tournament overall and prove himself capable at last. However, Arthur knew emerging victorious was unlikely; he had so little experience compared to the other warriors competing in the tournament. The next step in his plan involved contacting Merewald and penning a missive to King Rodor. Arthur also had to concoct some method of conversing with Sir Tor across long distances without alerting the King; Morgana and Freya would help him devise something, Arthur knew, as would Marian when he returned to Cornwall. Hopefully, he’d have the matter sorted before his scheduled return to Tintagel Castle: Morgana would have to break into Camelot otherwise and Arthur was sure the defences must have increased after the last time she’d done so.

Continuing to work on his breathing, Arthur returned to polishing his sword and threw himself into his work. He finished polishing his sword and then moved on to his ancestral dagger, appreciating the gentle pulse of comforting magic against his sternum as he continued working, passing time and running the aerial map of the grounds through his head. He started polishing his armour once he was finished with Carnwennan. Arthur lost himself to the familiar motions and didn’t think of Merlin. He didn’t think of pain and suffering. Nor did he think of the darkness that hovered at the edges of his mind and strained to get nearer whenever he was tired or stressed.

His hands were aching from the work when someone cleared their throat outside.

Arthur snapped his head up at the noise and swallowed thickly, remembering that he was to be summoned for an audience with the Queen of Wessex. He set down his last piece of armour and rose from his chair, a burst of his will directing the magic to make sure he was clean and presentable. His pristine white cloak was being fastened around his neck a moment later. His shoulders squaring, Arthur drew the new hood over his head and strode outside to find the clerk waiting; the young man inclined his head at the sight of him and murmured his respect.

“Lead the way,” Arthur ordered quietly, using the commanding voice he’d grown accustomed to using when required. The clerk dipped his head again and did so without a word. Arthur followed him silently, his eyes and ears alert for even the faintest noise. The alert thrum of magic against his sternum matched the quickened pulse of his heart. Neither of them could be too careful now, not with his childhood tormentor lurking somewhere on the tournament grounds. He looked at the clerk. “I heard the man we spoke of was distracted earlier. Care to explain?”

“He heard tell of a brothel and went investigating,” the clerk answered easily, a smirk in his tone. “He thinks he was busy, but he spent the afternoon unconscious. I know someone rather skilled at weaving dreams.”

“Where is he now?”

“He returned to his tent some time ago.”

“I see.” Arthur looked ahead of him. “Thank you for helping me.”

“It was nothing, Sire.” The note in his voice was firm despite the hint of reverence present while addressing the Once and Future King, which Arthur still had trouble believing was him at times. However, the faint reverence emboldened Arthur, who raised his chin and strode across the grounds with even more confidence as he followed the clerk past the various tents. The clerk glanced over his shoulder at Arthur. “Turning our backs on you is the same as turning our backs on the Old Religion and we’d never do that here. Helping you is an honour and a privilege.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I don’t have to know you.”

“I beg to differ,” Arthur answered easily, a small measure of amusement filtering through his voice. “How can you be sure that I am who I am unless you know me on a more personal level? Maybe I’m an imposter.”

“I’d know at once.” The clerk shrugged and looked ahead. The pair crossed the trench separating the tournament grounds from the town and castle and slipped through the gates. “We all find our special gifts at some point. I’m good at discerning liars from honest men and you’re as honest as I imagine the Once and Future King would need to be. I have as much faith in you now as our Queen did all these years. She never doubted that you were alive.”

Arthur said nothing, but mulled the words over in his head as the clerk led him through the town. He gazed up at the modest fortress for a moment and then studied the space around him. It was a surprise to see a number of small faces poking their heads up over windowsills and around doorframes as he passed. He could hear whispers of the fated moniker spreading as a wave of excitement rippled through them before their parents pulled them away, throwing apologetic glances and warm smiles his way. Arthur almost reached for his ancestral ring, the weight of their unspoken expectations heavy, but refrained from doing so. He inclined his head in acknowledgement instead: these people believed in him and he wasn’t going to put his own lack of confidence on display, knowing such a thing could undermine his current position and the future of a united Albion.

The clerk led him up the steps and into the castle.

Anticipation curled in his stomach as the doors swung closed silently, separating them from the outside world. He reached up and lowered his hood. He wasn’t in danger here. His mind was working already, taking measurements and calculating, creating a mental map of the castle as Arthur was led through corridor after corridor until the clerk stopped outside a pair of oaken doors. The clerk knocked before stepping through and announcing, “Your Majesty, the Once and Future King has come at your request.”

It took less than a moment for the young man to step away, leaving the entrance clear for Arthur, who raised his chin with a confidence that he didn’t feel on the inside. He stepped across the threshold and swept his gaze through the council chamber, taking note of the golden wyverns woven into cardinal red banners suspended on the stone walls. An oaken table took up the centre of the chamber, patches of torchlight and shadow sprawling across the strong surface. The council chamber was warm and welcoming, which put him at ease at once and the hidden scraps of his confidence came easier as a result.

The Queen of Wessex stood silhouetted against one of the large windowpanes. Her shadow stretched across the stone floor, almost reaching him. She stared out through the glass for a long moment and then turned slowly, her hand gripping a tall staff. It was topped with an andradite headpiece that glimmered in the torchlight. She wasn’t dressed like a Queen in the least: her clothes were simple and common enough. He could have seen the same clothes upon a common woman on a regular day; it was startling to see and more than refreshing, and Arthur couldn’t help beaming in quiet appreciation. He was overdressed for the first time in almost two years.

What a splendid thought.  

The Queen of Wessex fastened her eyes upon him and Arthur was startled to see moonlike clouds obscuring her pupils. She shifted her staff and leaned heavily, her free hand joining the first and gripping tightly, her eyes beginning to well with tears. A single tear slipped free from her iron lashes and Arthur wasn’t certain what to say, or whether something should be said at all. It seemed to be an important moment for the Queen of Wessex as she stared at him – or through him as the case seemed to be – and Arthur wasn’t certain whether speaking would ruin it for her. His shoulders tensing, he stared at the elder noble in return until she seemed to realise what she was doing.

“Your Majesty, I hope you can forgive me for staring,” the Queen of Wessex said after a moment and turned away, turning towards the table and crossing the floor with measured steps. “I’ve been waiting almost three decades for this moment.”

“You don’t need to address me like that. I’m...I’m not a King.”

“Not yet.” Her hand connected with the back of a chair as she smiled warmly, the expression deepening her endless wrinkles. She fumbled for a moment and then pulled the chair out for herself. “I hope you won’t mind sitting with me: I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“I don’t mind at all.” Arthur crossed the council chamber and sat opposite her, a smile curling his mouth as she eased herself down. “I’m grateful for the chance to speak with you.”

“I bet you are.” The Queen of Wessex chuckled softly, her expression easing into something almost fond as she stared through him. Her hand tightened a fraction around her staff. “You seek allies. But I’m afraid you won’t find them here.”

“I don’t understand.” Arthur stiffened in his chair, confusion rippling through him at once. He stared at the woman sitting opposite him in blatant expectation. “I thought that was the reason for wanting to speak to me.”

“Not exactly,” she answered calmly, her head tilting, those clouded pupils unnerving as she stared through him. The Queen of Wessex reached into the folds of her brown cloak and withdrew a scroll sealed with wax and bearing the same wyvern that adorned the banners on the walls. She set it down on the table and slid it over to him with an enigmatic smile. “I don’t want an alliance with you. But I have something else to offer instead. Naturally, if you’d prefer, Your Majesty, you can wait until you return to your tent before opening it. I don’t mind. I’ll respect whatever decision you make here.”

“I’ll open it now.” Frowning, Arthur stared down at the scroll for a moment before reaching for it. He pulled the scroll closer, breaking the seal with ease. He unrolled it and combed its contents. His heart jumped into his throat even as the muscles of his throat began constricting, his anxieties making an immediate appearance. Arthur lowered the scroll and spent a moment just breathing, forcing his lungs to keep working, forcing his throat to open back up again. His heart could remain lodged there for all he cared – there were more pressing matters to attend to. He looked at the Queen of Wessex at last and waved the scroll at her, unsurprised when her gaze remained unfocused and unseeing, but frustrated all the same. “Is this a joke?”

“It would be an elaborate one. Have you checked the date?”

“I thought being named your successor was more pressing.” His eyes flicked back to the scroll automatically, his breath hitching, realisation flooding through him. His fingertips brushed the date in quiet wonder. “I was born on this date.”

“Most of us felt you coming,” the Queen of Wessex elaborated quietly, her expression sombre. She bowed her head in respect. “Some even witnessed the briefest glimpse of your birth. I’m not sure whether that was a privilege or not. Childbirth is gruesome and not for the faint of heart. So, no, it isn’t a joke – not in the least.”

“If you aren’t joking, then I don’t understand.”

“I’m barren.” Her tone was blunt and Arthur flinched in his chair, his hand tightening around the scroll. He hadn’t expected to hear something so personal spoken with such overwhelming ease. “I’ve been barren for a long time. I don’t have heirs to succeed me.”

“You could have chosen one.”

“I’ve done so. I did so as soon as you were born and I had the Court Librarian and Record Keeper notarise it at once. You are the heir to this throne and you’ll succeed me as soon as I abdicate. I’d like to do it soon.” The Queen of Wessex leaned forward in her chair and her expression grew beseeching, and Arthur stared at her in return. His heart hammered in his chest. “Wessex was never meant to be a monarchy; our line began as a stewardship. We served under your ancestors when Albion was last united and we would serve your line again.”

“But I’m not ready,” whispered Arthur, feeling as small and vulnerable as a child at the prospect of ruling with so little experience under his belt. He could feel his throat closing up all over again. “I’m not prepared for this.”

“No one said you had to ascend the throne immediately,” the Queen of Wessex answered softly, her expression gentling. She sat back in her chair, her hand tightening around her staff. She continued to stare through him. “At the end of the day, the choice is still yours. You’re the Once and Future King and I can’t force you to do a single thing, even if it would benefit the people here. You have a decision to make and it doesn’t have to be made right now, but I’ll respect your choice when the time comes. You just need to let me know what that choice is.”

“You’ll allow me time to decide and seek counsel?”

“As the Once and Future King, seeking counsel and mulling over decisions is part of your job.”

“I’ll take that time then.” Hope bloomed in his chest at the thought of discussing the matter with his aunt. But he couldn’t help smiling at the faint hint of amusement and sarcasm in her voice despite the burgeoning situation. He supposed that was one of the perks of being considered on par with Druidic monarchs – perhaps even a level higher, given his future position as High King of Albion. He looked down at the scroll in his hand and squared his shoulders. “I’ll have an answer when the tournament is over.”

The pair of them rose from their chairs and bade each other goodnight.


	48. Chapter Forty-Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, folks.
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think! I love hearing all your thoughts. :)

Arthur was pacing back and forth across the tent when Ninianne arrived the following morning, her face flushed from darting over, her jade eyes bright with increasing excitement. He managed a strained smile at the sight of the young witch and settled down near the table bearing his armour, beckoning her closer without uttering a word. Ninianne beamed at him in response and approached at once. She ran a quick hand over his gambeson to smooth out the wrinkles he’d created while fretting about the upcoming tournament and then reached for the hauberk nearby, the chainmail clinking, glittering in the sliver of sunlight piercing through the one gap in the tent. Arthur leaned forward in his chair and raised his arms expectantly, allowing Ninianne to slip the hauberk over his head and hands. He lowered his arms and leaned back. He squirmed under the added weight for a moment as the chainmail settled into place. Ninianne tugged here and there to ensure perfection before helping Arthur don his white surcoat.

The red gryphon of Cornwall emblazoned his chest.

His coif and gorget came next.

Quickly, but expertly, Ninianne secured him into both vambraces and then continued along his dominant arm. Arthur wasn’t fond of wearing armour on his other arm: it felt so awkward and unnatural whenever he moved – even after all his training under its added weight. He’d have a shield to protect his left arm in the arena. He offered a small smile of encouragement as Ninianne secured his rerebrace and couter, and then both of his spaulders. She dropped to her knees then and secured his greaves around his calves before Arthur rose from his chair, allowing her to sling his belt around his waist and buckle it into place. Having his sharpened sword and ancestral dagger so close to him again was an immediate comfort to his strained nerves. Ninianne stepped away, running a speculative gaze over him even as she reached for his barbute.  

“You look like you belong in that armour; Merlin would love it.”

“There isn’t much Merlin wouldn’t love.” Arthur shook his head and shoved his helmet under his arm. He looked towards the entrance that concealed the waiting world from view. His shoulders tensed. He looked at Ninianne again. “I don’t suppose I can dive headlong into a bush and pretend this isn’t happening, can I?”

“I’m afraid not. Arthur, you walked yourself into this and you’re going to walk yourself back out when one of them wipes the floor with you or when the tournament draws to an inevitable close – whichever comes first. Either way, you’ll have done your absolute best in the end and no one could ask more of you. Nothing else matters.” Ninianne gave him a sympathetic smile when Arthur didn’t look convinced in the least. She patted his arm in a show of comfort. “Just pretend Merlin is watching; I know just how much you liked showing off to him when he’d train you back in Camelot. Pretend this is the same thing!”

“I’m not sure that sort of thing works in practice.”

“You’ll make it work and you’ll be fine.” Ninianne took another step away, reaching for his shield and heaving it into her arms. She hugged it to her chest as she came back to him and then held it out with a warm smile. “I have complete faith in you – just like Merlin does.”

Arthur stared down at her, his throat constricting at the most recent mention of his lover, who no longer believed in him at all now. It was hard to believe in someone thought to be a corpse in the ground. Arthur tensed with discomfort and swallowed thickly, a bead of sweat forming at his temple as he stared at Ninianne. He wondered when she’d started to sound more like her elder brother, who once murmured words of encouragement against the back of his neck or the shell of his ear. 

His heart clenched at the recollection.

It clenched even harder at the knowledge that Merlin no longer believed in him.

He plucked the shield from her grasp and turned away, hiding the emotions that surged through him for a moment. Magic pulsed against his sternum in a show of comfort and Arthur forced the surge of emotions to subside before striding out into the morning sunshine. Warm sunlight sprawled across the grass. Arthur kept his back straight and his chin up as he strode across the grass and passed the clerk from the previous day, the young man murmuring a respectful greeting as he inclined his head in a modest bow and wishing him luck in the first round. Just hearing it boosted his confidence and determination. He wouldn’t give in to his fear and anxiety, not in front of those who would see him become King, not in front of those who still had so much faith in him. He’d make them proud. He’d make his lover proud again once Merlin learned he was still living, still breathing, still striving for that future the two of them had promised each other.

He’d settle for nothing less than that.

Magic bloomed around him as soon as Arthur neared the arena. It reacted to his need to go unnoticed amongst the congregating warriors as he approached the listing, his eyes searching for the shield representing him on the board. His first fight would be the second of the morning. His eyes narrowing, Arthur moved away, his hand finding the narrow shoulder of his squire and gripping tightly, steering Ninianne through the thick crowd of tall and muscled men. He wasn’t going to leave her out of his sight while the pair remained in the public domain. He steered her over to the stands and wasn’t surprised to see his sister waiting, Freya beside her, the pair of them on edge as their eyes searched the crowds gathering around them. His armed escort sat in the row just behind his sister, keeping watch over the ladies and the various people starting to congregate in the stands. Fortunately, the two were clever enough to dress as commoners in case either of them was spotted at the tournament.

It meant neither of them would be associated with Cornwall: the two of them were just spectators coming to watch a tournament. Just like all the other men and women congregating in the stands.

Arthur released Ninianne as soon as he spotted the group and managed a small smile as she darted away, cheerful and enthusiastic. Freya made room for her at once and the young witch settled between the pair, smiling, her gaze fastening upon the arena.

That girl loved a good tournament. She loved to watch a spot of controlled violence and that concept was outside the realm of his understanding, his appreciation for feats of strength and skin flushed with exertion aside. Naturally, it was possible that Ninianne appreciated the same thing, but Arthur wasn’t fond of contemplating the prospect: she was still a child to him. No matter how wise she’d grown since her return from the distant continent a few years ago. Just the thought of her growing up and forming her own attachments unnerved him after seeing how troubled her formative years could be.

Frowning, Arthur remembered his own troubled youth and the painful instances of attraction he’d felt back then as he settled beside Freya in silence. He could remember being just twelve years old and developing his first crush on the tall and strapping son of a local farmer, who had little time for the quiet and inexperienced nuisance following in his wake. He’d been brisk when showing Arthur where to go and what to do with himself on the farm. He’d been sharp and hurtful whenever Arthur had made a mistake and even more so when he’d grown upset in the wake of such rebukes. So much older and wiser now, Arthur wasn’t even certain what had attracted him to the young man in the first place.

He’d been handsome.

That wasn’t in question at all.

But he hadn’t been kind in the least.

Kindness was much more important than being handsome.

Arthur could remember being eighteen with just as much ease and walking past the local bakery, admiring the bakers’ daughter, whose strong arms had been covered with flour from her wrists to elbows as she’d kneaded dough on the table. He’d often paused in the street and admired her until she’d glance up and notice him standing there. She’d sneer at Arthur, who’d hasten away, his head bowed to avoid the strength of her disdain and conceal the fragile nature of his heart. His stomach had often tightened with pain. He hadn’t wept at the injustice of his situation. He hadn’t confined himself in the room he’d shared with his siblings and thrown a tantrum over his continued powerlessness. He’d reached a measure of resignation at that point. He’d resigned himself to being alone forever, to being unloved and unwanted in their society, and had never attempted to challenge the loneliness that waited for him.

He’d resigned himself to the knowledge that no one would fall in love with him one day, or even cast admiring glances at him as he’d seen his adoptive siblings receive now and then. He’d accepted the fact that he’d never be pressed against a welcoming mattress and used until morning, just for the sake of simple gratification. He’d resigned himself to the knowledge that no one would ever be attracted to him in the least.

Coming to work in the castle had been a revelation compared to the years he’d spent being sneered at and jeered at and derided until his skin started crawling with distaste whenever he glimpsed a reflection of himself. It had been a revelation to see Merlin and Sir Tor smiling, almost beaming at him. Some unacknowledged part of him had tensed with confusion and then celebrated in silence when he wasn’t hated automatically, when he wasn’t cornered and beaten into submission like a dangerous animal.

His attraction to both of those men had been more understandable than the attraction he’d felt during his formative years.

It was strange to realise such uncomfortable and pointless instances of attraction had occurred so long ago. It had been more than a decade since the attraction he’d felt for the cruel young man and almost a decade since the attraction he’d felt for the local bakers’ daughter. Arthur still felt that young at times. It wasn’t because he had an endless and overwhelming amount of energy, but because he felt so vulnerable and so inexperienced now and then. He still felt like that child on the cusp of adulthood at times. He supposed it might not be so uncommon among those who’d suffered.

He wasn’t sure.

But he supposed he didn’t have to be.

His frown deepening, Arthur wondered what had happened to the bakers’ daughter over the long years that passed in Camelot. She might have been one of the ones that turned against the King, but she could still be baking and married now with just as much ease – married and the possible mother of children.

That was an odd and somewhat distressing thought.

His hand drifted to his middle for a moment and his fingers tightened around his surcoat with muted want. His eyes fluttered closed at the idea of having his own children someday, his expression turning wistful. Arthur could almost imagine them now: strong and beautiful children with dark hair and the most beguiling smiles ever witnessed. He hoped his future children would take after Merlin in more than just looks. He never wanted them to lack confidence like him or be an easier target for scorn and ridicule than other children in their generation. He was certain now that Merlin would be a wonderful father; he’d be warm and loving, wise and nurturing, kind and helpful. His lover would be one of the best role models their children could ever have and that thought warmed Arthur, flooding him with tentative relief.   

Releasing his surcoat and shaking his head clear, Arthur focused on the arena in front of him and jolted with surprise when he spotted Sir Tor on the opposite side. He’d have waved were it not for the enchantment enveloping him and the familiar brute sitting beside Sir Tor – not to mention the squires working under them and a pair of armed guards.

Arthur watched Sir Tor, who started frowning, his gaze sweeping through the stands in a searching manner. That gaze slid straight over him without pause. Arthur couldn’t help smiling, certain now that his childhood tormentor wouldn’t notice him while the enchantment was in place. Sir Tor did a second sweep of the stands and then spotted Morgana. His frown deepening, the Knight slid his gaze along the row at a slower pace and came to a gradual stop on Arthur, but his gaze remained unfocused. He couldn’t quite pin an exact location on Arthur. His instinct would be to keep sliding, as if Arthur wasn’t there at all. Naturally, Arthur knew such an enchantment would have to be eased once he entered the ring, but he’d keep it in place for now.

No matter how much he wanted to see Sir Tor smiling at him.

His attention returned to the matter at hand when the opening competitors strode into the ring. Arthur watched the pair closely, watched the pair of them bow to the Queen of Wessex – who’d taken her seat with little fanfare while the crowds were gathering in anticipation of the event. She still wasn’t wearing something befitting her position as Queen.

Arthur admired that about her.

He admired that she wasn’t bothered to drape herself in needless finery; she was aware enough to know that it had nothing to do with her power as Queen of Wessex. While fine clothes and gleaming crowns lent an individual a certain amount of power, the combination alone didn’t make a monarch in the least. He’d learned that much while working for his lover, while watching Merlin gain and keep favour from nobles and common folk alike.

Merlin was the real King of Camelot and Mercia. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t official. His people loved him and trusted him to do his best for them. No one could take that power from Merlin now that he’d earned it: the people spread out across those two united realms decided who’d have power over them.

That person wasn’t Bayard.

Merlin was the one man Arthur would kneel for, loving and willing, gazing up at him in complete adoration. Honestly, if Merlin ever wanted such a display, he’d press his brow to the cold stone at his feet in a heartbeat. But he imagined his lover would prefer to view such a sight from behind and in private.

A shiver ran down his spine at he remembered just how much Merlin had appreciated his backside. Drawing his bottom lip between his teeth and nibbling, Arthur remembered the warm and possessive hands that once caressed the swell of his arse and squeezed – not to mention the compliments uttered at the time. He wondered whether Merlin would appreciate how firm his backside had become since then or if he’d miss the softer one Arthur had before. He hoped it would be the former. He hoped Merlin would covet and adore his firmer backside with just as much fervour, hands clutching and massaging with deliberate pressure.

His eyes fluttered shut at the thought.

Shaking such thoughts away, Arthur forced himself to focus on the warriors now circling each other, whose steps were measured and calculated. He catalogued their movements and recorded even the slightest weakness in stride and swing, his face intense as the warriors clashed against each other in repeated bursts of violent passion.

The match was over in less than five minutes.

Swallowing, Arthur slid his helmet over his head and directed the magic to ease its enchantment without uttering a word. He rose from the bench and headed down to the ring, his shield fixed in place and his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. As soon as he entered the ring, Arthur gave himself a moment to get a feel for the earth beneath his feet before turning and bowing to the Queen of Wessex. His opponent did the same on the other side of the ring, his surcoat denoting his subservience to the King of Dyfed. His throat beginning to constrict and his frame tensing, Arthur drew in a long and calming breath as he and his opponent bowed to each other, their movements shallow compared to the respect shown to the Queen of Wessex a moment earlier. It was a struggle to show even such shallow respect to his opponent. Arthur didn’t have much respect to spare for the noblemen that worked for a lecherous slug like the King of Dyfed.

Arthur drew his blade slowly, taking comfort in the hiss of sharpened steel and the weight in his gloved hand. He moved into position as his opponent did the same. Focusing on his breathing, Arthur started circling the ring, his steps measured to perfection. Numbers started whirring through his head as his opponent stared him down and started smirking, as though the man predicted a quick victory; Arthur tensed in indignation at the thought. His grip tightened around the hilt of his blade and then eased as Arthur forced himself to release the tension in his frame. He wasn’t going to attack in anger. He wasn’t going to make that mistake in the ring, not when his future people were watching, tense and silent in the stands. He wasn’t going to make that mistake in front of Morgana – who’d put so much effort into sparring with him and improving his skills over the last few months.

His opponent attacked first in the end.

It was like being hit with a boulder, but Arthur stood his ground and relied on the skills he’d gained since his training began. He relied on the numbers whirring through his head with instinctive ease. Steel sang through the air. Grunts of exertion punctuated each swing. Impact tremors ran up his arms after each collision. Air rushed past him whenever Arthur jerked his head away, avoiding clever jabs or swipes from a fist curled around a hard hilt. The violent clash lasted seconds before the pair retreated from each other, Arthur ignoring the throb of pain rippling along his aching arm and his opponent smirking once more. His heart thumped in his chest. Arthur clenched his jaw in pain and refrained from beginning another violent clash with a premature strike.

A bruised arm was nothing.

He’d faced worse than this in the past and had emerged with his chin raised in triumphant defiance. He’d do so again. His chest expanded and contracted with each quickened breath that escaped him as his skin warmed from the exertion – his chainmail and helmet made the warm morning air even hotter, his skin growing damp with sweat within moments. He didn’t want to imagine how hot it would be in the afternoon. His tongue darted out to catch the bead of sweat forming at the corner of his mouth.

The next skirmish began a moment later, Arthur and his opponent clashing like titans. He and his opponent clashed twice more before Arthur took quick advantage of a misstep, his foot catching a thick ankle and yanking, his opponent losing his balance even as a darting move with his sword disarmed the man. His boot came down to flatten his other arm against the earth before his opponent could strike with a sweep of his shield.

Arthur let the tip of his own blade kiss the vulnerable skin of a bared neck and held his stare until the man yielded with reluctance. He stepped away, unable to help the startled smile when the Queen of Wessex started clapping, her people cheering with immense vigour – the numerous children in particular. The sight warmed his spirit as he sheathed his sword. His smile broadening, Arthur glanced at Sir Tor, who offered a burst of polite applause and a faint smile while his stare carried all the pride and encouragement that a man could need. His heart hammering, he turned and offered a hand to his opponent before shrugging when the man dismissed him with a wave and a grunt. Arthur turned to face the Queen of Wessex and bowed again before striding from the ring, his skin almost hotter than he could bear.

Ninianne met him at the entrance to the arena and beamed up at Arthur, offering him a towel and a wineskin of water at once. She must have collected them while he was in the ring. He whipped off his helmet and wrenched down his coif as magic surged around him and strengthened the protective enchantment from earlier. Arthur accepted the towel and ran it over his head as the pair hastened away, his tunic clinging to him beneath his gambeson and hauberk. He handed the shield to Ninianne for a moment and grunted in pain as his bruised arm throbbed sharply, his movements stiff. He spared his growing bruise little thought as he uncorked the wineskin and doused his face in frostbitten water, groaning with relief as it splashed against his heated skin. The shock of cold felt so damned good in the wake of his exertion in the growing summer heat. He swallowed several mouthfuls then and shivered in pleasure as the cold coursed through him.

Arthur swapped the towel for his shield and gave Ninianne a warm smile as she rubbed her arms after having to bear the weight of his shield. He gave her an affectionate nudge. His squire nudged him right back. Her smile brightened even further as the pair disappeared into his waiting tent. Arthur dumped his shield on the table with a grunt of pain and continued to take sips from his wineskin as Ninianne unbuckled his belt and took his weapons away, placing them next to his abandoned shield. She tackled his greaves when Arthur dropped into his chair, his whole frame aching, unable to believe that he’d won his first match of the tournament. He tipped his head back as Ninianne unbuckled each piece of his armour and set it aside. His chest still heaving, Arthur let himself pretend that Merlin had been watching, cheering for him with the same fervour the people of Wessex had demonstrated. His eyes watered in an instant. His heart clenched in his chest. He let himself wallow in his emotions until Ninianne tugged on his hauberk and Arthur forced himself to sit up and lean forward.

A pained noise caught in his throat. His bruised arm started protesting, resisting the act of raising his arms as Ninianne pulled his hauberk up and over his head. The rest of him sagged with relief when its weight no longer draped over his aching frame. His squire gave him a concerned glance before reaching for his gambeson and undoing the laces crisscrossing down the centre of his torso. She helped him ease his bruised arm free and hissed when she rolled up the sleeve of his tunic to have a look. His eyes were drawn down at once. His heart jumped into his throat at the dark discolouration beginning to spread almost from wrist to elbow and swallowed back another pained noise as numerous unpleasant memories flickered across the surface of his mind. He wasn’t going to think about them. He wasn’t going to think about his childhood tormentor or the King, nor about the black and blue and deep purple bruises that once decorated his skin at their hands. He wasn’t going to think about how weak and powerless he’d felt then.

He wasn’t weak.

He wasn’t powerless.

He was a fighter and nothing could take that from him. Arthur wouldn’t let them. He wouldn’t let them take the progress he’d made over the last year and tear it to shreds. He wouldn’t let them corner him like an animal and force him to submit.

He’d fight.

Arthur wrenched his gaze away, his expression hardening, putting his pain behind him as he gave Ninianne leave to return to Morgana. He remained in the tent and undressed in the solitude that settled in her wake. Tendrils of magic escaped the crystal and wound around him like a lover, phantom arms enveloping him from behind. Arthur sighed in muted pleasure and longed to rest his head against a strong shoulder, but he knew it wasn’t possible: the magic serving him wasn’t infallible. It had more limits than the vast well of magic that once dwelled within Merlin. One phantom hand rested over his heart and the other settled over his abdomen for a moment before a tendril wound around his wrist and started tugging, pulling him over to the bathtub that had been shrunken to fit inside his luggage prior to his flight from Cornwall.

It was flooding with steaming water even as Arthur approached. A small groan of anticipation rumbled from his chest as his hand found the rim and the steam kissed his bare skin. He climbed into the water and moaned in ecstasy, his frame tensing and then releasing as he submerged himself with care. He rested his arms along the rim and tipped his head back against the soft cloth waiting for him. His eyes fluttered closed in pleasure as the magic started working, helping with his bath as Merlin used to after a bout of training, each touch of cloth and soap firm and gentle as the magic worked from the toes up.

Magic helped him sit up a while later, his thick frame too warm and pliant to even contemplate moving; Arthur moaned and sighed as magic tackled the expanse of his back and shoulders He was trapped in an exquisite haze. It wasn’t unlike the first time he and Merlin made love in Ealdor, his frame comfortable and heavy, his eyes dazed after so much kissing and caressing, so much pleasure. Magic helped him turn over then. Arthur rested against the rim and cushioned his face on the waiting cloth. He parted his thighs with a muffled sigh of encouragement as the magic continued to cleanse his body, each touch filled with adoration and longing, and yet it never once aroused him. That wasn’t the intended purpose. The magic just wanted him to relax and luxuriate in some comfort after his first match and Arthur wasn’t complaining in the least.

His eyes fluttering, Arthur mumbled a protest a moment or so later when the magic moved from between his buttocks and dipped down further, grazing the sensitive stretch of skin nestled behind his privates. A spark of unwanted desire jolted through him at the touch and then died down when an apologetic hand soothed the small of his back. Arthur started drifting back into that liquid haze as soft cloth and soap started tackling his privates with gentle care.

Between the heat of the bath and the care from his phantom lover, it wasn’t a surprise when Arthur started drifting to sleep before the magic woke him with a tender embrace and helped him to settle back on his haunches. It kept him upright as phantom hands started massaging his scalp and washing his hair, ensuring the last few inches of him were as clean as possible.

Magic continued to support him as Arthur was helped to his feet. His knees would have buckled otherwise. His frame was too heavy, too unwilling to support itself as that sleepiness continued to pump through his sluggish veins. Magic helped him out of the bath and kept him upright as phantom hands started massaging him dry, using a soft and warm towel to avoid irritating his sensitive skin.

“I love you.” His sentiments escaped on a mumble. Arthur blinked through his sleepiness as the magic paused for a moment before continuing down his legs. A phantom kiss was pressed just below his navel. His fingers itched to slip into raven hair that wasn’t available. “I love you and Merlin. You take such good care of me.”

Phantom arms wrapped around his lower back and another kiss was pressed below his naval. He wobbled in place despite the continued support and his lips parted around a soft sigh. His head tipped forward to stare down at the golden miasma of magic that loved him without reserve. His vision blurred at the thought a moment later. His mouth began trembling as more words caught in his constricting throat. A phantom hand started rubbing soothing circles against his lower back and the words started choking out of him.

“Sometimes I’m not sure I deserve this.” His shoulders hunched as his emotions started surging, his heaviness increasing, threatening to drag him down to the ground beneath him. A phantom face nuzzled against his stomach. His hands curled into fists as the urge to cradle a familiar head between them almost overwhelmed him. His shoulders quaked. Arthur swallowed past the lump growing in his throat and forced the words to keep coming, taking a deep and shuddering breath in an attempt to calm himself down. He knew getting worked up when he felt so tired wasn’t wise: it would do him much more harm than good. He struggled to calm his thundering heart. “I’m not sure I deserve the care you and Merlin give me. I know I feel like this because of Jeffrey, and because of the King, and maybe because of me...but I just...I can’t shake it when that feeling grips me. I hate it. I hate that feeling so much.”

The arms wrapped around him squeezed tighter, warm and loving, that phantom hand continuing to soothe the small of his back. A chair came across the tent to settle behind him just when he felt the pressing need to sit down. The phantom arms slid up to wrap around his shoulders instead and that phantom face nuzzled against his. Arthur swallowed thickly, his throat constricting around a small sob. He blinked his vision clear with some effort and then just melted into the embrace: it was the one thing he could do. It was the one thing he could do when he wanted nothing more than to throw his arms around Merlin and squeeze him closer, ensuring Merlin knew he was loved. He wanted Merlin to know that so much. He wanted Merlin to know he never stopped thinking and dreaming about him and their future together – that he never would.

Magic cradled him until his emotions died down and then urged him to take a few sips from his wineskin to quench his sudden thirst. Familiar phantom hands smoothed over his damp hair and his jaw before helping him dress in fresh clothes. It combed his hair then.

His heart heavy, Arthur let the enchantment from earlier settle back into place and returned to the arena to watch the remaining fights of the morning; he settled down beside Freya without a word. He managed a tired smile when she reached for his hand and squeezed in a show of comfort. Arthur squeezed right back in an answering show of gratitude. Normally, he and Freya weren’t so tactile with each other: Arthur made an effort not to break such boundaries whenever the pair of them spoke. But he wasn’t adverse to the idea whenever Freya opened a brief gap in those boundaries to bond with him in some small fashion.

Arthur knew that even such small things needed to be on her terms after what she’d experienced in the past. He wouldn’t press her; he wasn’t a brute. It warmed him when Freya looked askance at him and smiled softly, the expression almost hesitant on her face.

He hoped she’d smile more often in the future.

Arthur looked down at the combatants in the ring and watched tiredly, his mind making notes that he’d revisit in the morning when he was refreshed after some sleep. He’d missed a number of matches. He knew, however, that the first round would spread across three long mornings. Countless combatants had travelled to this realm to compete in the tournament. Honestly, Arthur thought there were more combatants competing in Wessex than there ever had been in Camelot and Mercia. It seemed like a good thing; it meant no one would have to fight when the sun reached its zenith and risk collapse in the intense summer heat. But none of that mattered. Arthur was just glad he hadn’t missed the chance to watch Sir Tor wipe the floor with his first opponent.


	49. Chapter Forty-Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, folks.
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think.

His companions joined him in his tent that evening, armed with reports from the previous day; Arthur ignored the urge to crawl into the bed that had been set up in the corner despite the continued heaviness in his limbs and paid close attention to the reports being made. Normally, he was the one to whom reports were made when the Queen of Cornwall wasn’t available. He’d grown accustomed to such responsibilities over the last year and now applied what he’d learned to the current situation. A faint frown furrowed his brow as he listened to the reports being made. One phantom hand ran up and down in a soothing line between his shoulders blades – Arthur grew tense over and over, his anger and fear from when he’d learned his childhood tormentor had been knighted returning whenever his name was mentioned during the discussion. His jaw clenched with it. Morgana watched Arthur, her gaze intent and concerned as Sir Lancelot continued speaking, his voice hushed with his own sense of anger and injustice.

Sir Lancelot had discovered that Bayard had sent his childhood tormentor, not just to keep a close eye upon Sir Tor, but also to recruit practitioners for his depleted magical forces. Apparently, it was proving to be a great challenge to source them from within Camelot and Mercia. That wasn’t a surprise after what had happened to Merlin almost two years earlier. His mouth thinning, Arthur bowed his head in thought and spared a glimmer of relief for the fact that the abusive King would find few willing to join him in Wessex. His frown deepened a moment before he raised his head and levelled an expectant stare at his trusted Knight.

“Keep track of his movements as often as possible.” Sir Lancelot nodded gravely, his serious expression tightening with determination. His dark eyes glittered with intent. Arthur tipped his head in acknowledgement of his blatant acceptance. “I want the names of all those who seem marginalised or might be persuaded to work for the King – the young and vulnerable in particular. Hopefully, none will be willing, but we can’t take that chance. I’ll need to speak to them before he succeeds in recruiting them. Whatever we can do to limit their forces will be of great benefit to us when I make a move at last.”

Sir Lancelot made to speak and then fell silent when Arthur raised an imperious hand as the magic started tingling against his skin in warning and warm anticipation. He tilted his head and started listening, focusing his senses. It took less than a moment to detect the approaching footsteps. Sir Lancelot and Sir Kay reached for their swords as Freya growled quietly, her eyes turning green as she looked towards the entrance. Arthur looked over his shoulder, however, his insides curling with the same burst of warm anticipation the magic felt. He smiled when a familiar figure entered the tent in a covert fashion. His smile softened when Ninianne released a shout of pure delight before bolting out of her chair, and throwing herself upon Sir Tor, who swept her up in a powerful embrace and twirled her around in the process. His heart clenched as the Knight set her down and ran his large hands over head and shoulders and arms to reassure himself that Ninianne was alright after their years apart. Arthur witnessed a surge of the same protective affection that he often felt when presented with the young witch.

Witnessing it warmed him from within.

“I can’t believe how much you’ve grown!” Sir Tor stared down at her, the back of his hand rising to brush her cheek. “I can’t believe how much I’ve missed.”

“I don’t think you’ve missed much. I’ve just been a bit...upset for a while.” Ninianne offered a small and somewhat tentative smile before capturing his larger hand in an eager grip. She pulled Sir Tor further into the tent as his smile softened and urged him to take a seat between her and Arthur, who watched them both with immense fondness while the men gathered their documentation and made a quick exit without prompting, though each of them spared a respectful and cheerful greeting. Frowning, Sir Tor watched them go for a moment and then glanced at Arthur, whose expression grew apologetic in an instant. Quiet understanding flickered across scarred features. It wasn’t that Sir Tor wasn’t someone to be trusted – but none of them could risk certain knowledge getting into the wrong hands and gaining trouble for Cornwall. With Councillor Ares still working for the King, and still practicing his magic freely, the danger that Sir Tor would have his mind searched upon his return was far too high. He knew that Councillor Ares would mention nothing of Arthur, not when the mage wanted to be an advisor to the Once and Future King, but he’d mention other things to strengthen the trust between himself and King Bayard. Arthur would give that abusive and sanctimonious bastard no reason to hurt his friend further, no matter how much he longed to bring Sir Tor into the fold with the other people he trusted. None the wiser, Ninianne continued talking all the while. “But I’m getting better, Tor, so you don’t need to fret. Arthur made sure I got all the help I needed and that someone would teach me how to control the gift I’ve been granted. I’ve never felt so comfortable with Hindsight before!”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Sir Tor looked at Ninianne again and beamed at her, his hand coming to brush a lock of loose hair back from her face. He tucked it behind her ear with gentle care. “I’m looking forward to hearing about all your lessons!”

“Morgana is the best tutor I’ve ever had.”

“Hardly,” Morgana scoffed loudly, drawing attention to her end of the table. Her maidservant had returned to her usual quiet and timid state of existence. Morgana leaned forward in her chair beside Freya and folded her arms upon the table. She gave Ninianne an earnest stare. “I’m just doing the best I can to help. You’re doing most of the work.”

“I’m serious.” Ninianne appeared just as earnest. “I’ve studied under some of the best tutors in Camelot and Mercia in the past and others while travelling the continent. I like your methods the best.”

Morgana coughed and looked away, but Arthur could detect the faintest hint of heat on her face when he looked at her. His sister tapped the table with her fingertips several times in quick succession and then looked at Sir Tor, her expression both hesitant and inquisitive as she leaned back in her chair, asking, “I hope your parents are well. Councillor Ares was rather pale the last time I saw him.”

“I imagine he was.” Sir Tor chuckled and glanced at Arthur, his expressing growing a fraction more intense. Doing his best not to fiddle with his ancestral ring, Arthur flicked his attention between the two of them and wondered where on earth the conversation was going, aware now that he wasn’t apprised of all of his sister’s possible actions. But he needn’t have worried: his unspoken questions were answered less than a moment later. “It isn’t common for a wanted witch to appear in his mirror and tell him that several men were coming to help some prisoners escape execution. I can’t decide whether you were being brave or stupid. You had no idea how he’d react to the news.”

“I can’t believe you did that!” Arthur rounded on his sister, disbelieving, shock and outrage warring for complete possession of his face. His hand curled into a fist upon the table. His fist trembled with the surge of his emotions for a moment before Arthur forced himself to ease the tension. Doing so had no effect upon his voice or face. “You took an enormous risk!”

“I had a strong hunch and it isn’t as though it didn’t work.”

“That doesn’t matter!”

“Look what you’ve done.” Morgana directed a pointed stare at Sir Tor, but then her mouth started curling, a glimmer of fond amusement making an appearance. “He’ll be badgering me about this for the rest of the week.”

“Longer,” Arthur interjected sharply, his outrage mellowing until it resembled irritation instead. “You can’t just go around risking your life for me. Councillor Ares could have traced your position when you contacted him and could have informed Bayard! Did you even pause to think about that?”

“I’m not stupid. Nor am I some inexperienced fool.” Morgana clenched her jaw, her expression hardening. Her nostrils flared with her own burst of anger. “But you were worth the risk. You still are.”

Arthur opened his mouth to snap that he’d never be worth such a risk...and then stilled when Sir Tor captured his hand without uttering a word and squeezed just so. He glanced at his friend and swallowed thickly, remembering that Merlin wasn’t alone in seeing what appeared to be his severed head in that sack. That Merlin wasn’t alone in seeing the man he loved dead.

Merlin would have considered such a risk necessary, no matter what. But perhaps he wasn’t alone in that either.

Tangling their fingers together, Arthur looked down and then away, his face warming even as emotion thundered through him. A quiet command sent Ninianne and the ladies scarpering, though the young witch spared a moment to pout at him and demanded that Sir Tor visit them all again soon – the Knight was quick and eager to do so.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur murmured softly, turning to look at Sir Tor, who stared at him as though he wanted nothing more than to close the distance and kiss him. Arthur knew that expression like the back of his hand. He’d seen it on Merlin more times than he could ever count. He squeezed the hand in his with gentle force and continued to explain. “I’m sorry, if what I wanted to tell her was insensitive to your experiences. I didn’t mean to be. But I’ve learned from experience how dangerous rash actions can be and I don’t want her to think such actions are okay, just because I’m in danger. Surely, you can understand that?”

“I understand.” Sir Tor nodded slowly, his expression turning serious. He squeezed his hand in return. “But I’m still relieved that she took the risk to help you. I’d rather know you’re alive and well than live knowing she did nothing, even though she could have. Can _you_ understand _that_?”

Arthur leaned forward and kissed the nearest scar, murmuring, “I can.”

Sir Tor turned his head a fraction and Arthur stilled immediately, his hand tensing where it gripped the edge of the table to keep him balanced. One moment passed and then another, and Arthur found himself breathing easier, relaxing, a small smile curling his mouth as Sir Tor just gazed at him. It was one of the rare moments when being scrutinised didn’t make him squirm with discomfort. Drawing his lip between his teeth and nibbling, Arthur lingered for a moment and then rose from his chair, his smile deepening as he gestured for the other man to follow. He headed for the bed. He’d dressed the bed himself the night before – the magic had helped to remove the spell keeping it miniaturised and had then placed it in the corner under his direction. He’d nestled into the pillows for the night at once. Arthur leaned down to unlace his boots when he neared the bed and whipped his stockings off before crawling onto the soft blankets. A warm pillow cushioned his face once Arthur turned over to face Sir Tor, his smile warm and welcoming, shuffling backwards to make more room after the Knight let his weapons fall to the ground.

His boots and stockings followed a moment later.

“I saw you in the crowd today,” Arthur murmured quietly, his smile softening as his fingers fiddled with a loose thread on his blanket. His face warmed a fraction as the words that followed stumbled on his tongue and then fell from his lips in a rush. “I’m glad you were watching; it made winning feel even better.”

“Is that right?” The amusement in his tone made Arthur flush deeper, but the warm smile softened the mild sting of embarrassment. Sir Tor reached out and cradled the back of his neck. Gentle fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, almost teasing, and Arthur bit back the startled sigh of contentment. He hadn’t expected Sir Tor to do one of the various things that made him shiver and writhe whenever Merlin or the magic did so. His friend directed a somewhat soft and knowing look at him. “I’ll admit I loved watching you compete this morning – just like I loved watching Merlin compete in the past. Something must be said about beautiful men being athletic and getting hot under their hauberks.”

Arthur choked out an awkward laugh upon hearing the compliment and turned his face away, hiding it in the pillow despite the fingers still tangling in his hair. That was when Sir Tor started chuckling, his fingers teasing him with another light tug of his hair. Squashing a shiver, Arthur batted at his arm with the back of his hand and Sir Tor released his hair immediately, and then Arthur gave him a grateful smile as soon as his flaming face emerged from the pillow. Several minutes of silence passed before Arthur spoke again.

“What ever happened between you?”

“We realised we wanted different things.” Sir Tor gave him a sad smile and then shrugged one shoulder. “I wanted to get married and he didn’t. I don’t blame him: he was young and had enough weight resting on his shoulders without adding marriage to the list.”

“You...you must have loved him so much.”

“I still do.”

“I’m sure you do.” Arthur shuffled closer, his voice quietening, murmuring, “But it must have been hard to watch him leave. How long were you together?”

“Two years.” Sir Tor gave him another sad smile then. His arm slipped around him and tugged Arthur still closer, bringing them almost flush against each other. Warm breath ghosted over his face. Arthur couldn’t help smiling in return: being close to someone that loved him felt so wonderful. A gentle hand ran along the curve of his spine in a warm slide felt even through his tunic. “It was no more difficult than rejecting you. But I had to let him go. I’m not so selfish that I’d bind him to me when he doesn’t want to be bound.”

“How old was he when you first started courting?”

“Sixteen.” A wave of fondness washed over scarred features. Sir Tor chuckled. “He’d just won his first tournament and I’d gone to his tent to congratulate him. He drove me up against the pole and kissed me for the first time. It was so awkward and clumsy, but it was wonderful as well. I knew he hadn’t kissed someone before. I was his first.”

“Who was _your_ first?”

“The Knight I served as squire for. He taught me so much and then I taught Merlin four years later, and then –”

“Merlin used what you taught him on me.” His face flamed as Sir Tor looked at him in surprise. His hand stilled against the small of his back. Arthur nibbled his bottom lip and turned his face away, tempted to hide in the pillow once more. He then moistened his lips as he remembered the night he and Merlin first made love in that miserable excuse for a bed. How wonderful it had been. “He never told you about Ealdor?”

“He isn’t the kind to kiss and tell.” That gentle hand continued stroking, nice and slow and steady, warm and comforting. Sir Tor pressed a soft kiss against his forehead. “But that doesn’t mean _you_ can’t open up about it. You’re the one in charge of how open you are to people.”

“It was amazing,” Arthur exclaimed breathlessly, hiding his face in his shoulder, his fingers curling in the soft tunic in front of him. His voice grew muffled. Sir Tor clutched him tighter at once and pressed a kiss against his hair. Arthur could feel his face starting to burn as the words continued to rush out of him. Normally, he’d never be so open about such a thing, but this was different. He trusted Sir Tor almost as much as he trusted Merlin. “He made me feel so loved. He made me feel...attractive. I’d never felt like that before. No one ever wanted or loved me until the pair of you came along, Tor, but he made me feel like being so inexperienced wasn’t so awful. He made me feel like it wasn’t shameful.”

“Arthur, sexual inexperience is nothing to be ashamed of. Inexperience is one of the most natural parts of our lives and some people remain inexperienced forever, and there is _nothing_ wrong with that. Gaining such experience isn’t some rite of passage required to complete you as a human being, you know.” Sir Tor pressed another kiss against his hair and squeezed him closer, his arm warm and strong around him. “Is that understood?”

Arthur hummed without answering, and just luxuriated in the chance to open up to someone without an overwhelming amount of embarrassment. He whispered in a rush about the tenderness Merlin had shown him and the quiet confidence that had been overwhelming, so overwhelming to witness as he’d slipped into that exquisite daze. He whispered about how he could have spent forever just kissing, luxuriating in the soft slide and push of those plush lips as Merlin claimed his mouth with that deft tongue of his. He whispered about the hot curl of pleasure and desperation that grew inside him when Merlin had sucked on his tongue. Speaking about it sent a shiver of want through Arthur, who pressed closer to Sir Tor, mortified at his own reaction.

Sir Tor chuckled against his hair, but said nothing to dissuade him from his whispered confession. He listened until Arthur grew heavier, his eyes drifting closed and fluttering back open over and over, and his tired mouth stumbling over the words. Honestly, the bed was far too comfortable for him in that moment and it was pulling him down into the dark embrace of sleep.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Sir Tor murmured some time later, not long after having helped him fumble into a nightshirt and a worn pair of trousers. He draped the blankets over Arthur, who peered up at him blearily, his face buried in the nearest pillow. His gentle hand carded through his hair and Arthur hummed in content at the rough scrape of calluses against his scalp – just like when Merlin used to touch him. “I’ll come to you as soon as possible and we’ll talk some more. Perhaps we could share another supper together?”

Sir Tor was true to his word the following day, approaching the tent not long before supper, where Arthur was roasting two quails he’d hunted over a crackling fire. The magic expanded to include Sir Tor under its protection at once.

“What did you learn today?”

“That I’m going to lose this stupid tournament in the second round.” Arthur scowled into the fire as Sir Tor settled down beside him. He shuffled more than an inch to the side to avoid the welcoming heat of his friend and wrapped his arms around his knees in a defensive fashion. “You saw some of the warriors out there today; I don’t stand a chance in the next round.”

“You know, the sheer determination involved in being so pessimistic all the time is quite inspiring,” the Knight said calmly, though his gaze sparked with amusement when Arthur glanced at him in irritation. He reached out and ruffled his hair. “You aren’t going to lose unless you walk in there believing you will.”

“You stole that from Merlin.”

“Who do you think told him in the first place?” Sir Tor sighed and then captured his hand quickly, squeezing when Arthur tried to pull his hand free. “I know you’re finding it hard to believe right now, but you aren’t a defenceless weakling; you’re more than capable of holding your own out there. I saw you fight. I saw your skill and your endless resolve. That is a formidable combination and it’ll stand to you in the second round – just as it stood to you in the first.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and huffed quietly, but didn’t bother to argue the point much longer. He knew the Knight was right. Some part of him knew that all the foundations required to win were strong and supportive beneath him.

But remembering that was hard.

Hating the sight of his own reflection and repeating negative trains of thought were so ingrained in him that hearing positive comments – about his appearance and his growing pool of talents – was still strange and uncomfortable when coming from someone that wasn’t included among his nearest and dearest. It was even more uncomfortable to stand in front of the mirror and whisper them himself. Standing with his hands on hips and doing his best to bring a rush of confidence to the surface made him feel so stupid and pathetic that he had to fight against the urge to lash out against the mirror in a fit of frustrated aggression. Arthur often failed to calm down until magic wrapped around him in a warm embrace and started vibrating against him until his frustration cracked down the middle.

Arthur focused on the roasting quails and made no move to decline when Sir Tor shuffled closer to him. He didn’t react at all when a strong arm wrapped around him in a show of warm affection. He did nothing but focus on his breathing, counting time in his head until his worries and fears faded away, leaving him blank in their wake. Such a void of emotion was better than his defeatist attitude. Defeatism wouldn’t help him in the arena during the second round. It wouldn’t help accomplish the fate waiting for him. It wouldn’t help him through life at all. He’d have to conquer that defeatism before his next fight and he wasn’t sure watching the tournament was the cure.

But he couldn’t avoid watching, not without missing out on the chance to observe his future opponents and make notes about them. His love for numbers had proved most beneficial whenever he’d watched a pair of warriors fighting, his mind making quick calculations based on power and speed and time. What he’d struggled with was comparing his own power and speed against theirs. His confidence had diminished with each comparison made and he’d buried deeper and deeper into negative thinking, his thoughts taking on a darker edge with each passing moment. It was a dark edge that reminded him of the King, reminded him of the cruel and dangerous voice that would murmur into his ear whenever the bastard pinned him down. Squeezing his eyes shut had done nothing to ward off that voice or the unwanted surge of memories that followed. He’d flinched when Morgana touched him and had bolted from the stands immediately, his face drained of colour and sweating, his throat convulsing as fingers that weren’t there wrapped around his neck and squeezed in an open threat.

His vision had started spotting just moments before he’d crashed through the entrance to his tent and Arthur had been clawing at the base of his neck when his knees gave way, hitting the ground hard. His knees still carried the bruises now. He’d been gripping the grass in desperation when magic had enveloped him in a powerful embrace. A phantom hand had pressed beneath his ribs and another had stroked between his shoulders as Arthur struggled to get his throat working, his lungs functioning, and his damned heart to cease galloping like a horse that had received a sharp slap to the rump. Trembling, Arthur had sprawled across the grass some minutes later, almost choking on each breath that he’d dragged in as the magic continued to stroke his back with loving care.

A phantom face had nuzzled against his hair.

Arthur struggled against the urge to close his eyes as Sir Tor gave him a warm and comforting squeeze. He tightened his arms around his knees and ignored the twinge as his bruised knees protested the treatment. Ignoring and concealing the presence of bruises was easy; he’d done it so often in the past that it became second nature to him. His hands tightened until his knuckles and tendons ached. Arthur dipped his head and stared into the crackling flames as the scent of roasting quail wafted around the campfire. He struggled not to think about those old bruises as Sir Tor started talking, complaining about Jeffrey, who was proving to be more of a pain in the arse than he anticipated. He struggled not to think about the man that abusive bastard now worked for, nor about the threats that used to be purred and growled against the shell of his ear. Arthur dipped his head lower, sliding his aching hands up to grip his hair, hiding his face from view as Sir Tor fell silent.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“Really,” Sir Tor asked sceptically, “because you look as pale as a sheet.”

“I’m just...not in a good place right now.” His hand slid down to rub the back of his neck in mounting agitation. Arthur continued to avoid looking at his friend. “Something happened today, and I’m...not good at separating past from present at times. I’m doing much better than I was last year, but I still slip sometimes.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” His throat burned around the lie even as the magic gave a scolding pulse against his sternum. His frame tightened even further. His stomach started churning and it took a moment to get it back under some measure of control. “I’ll lose all the appetite I’ve managed to gain back.”

“Okay,” Sir Tor answered quietly, his voice soft with so much concern. His strong arm tightened around Arthur and squeezed him a fraction closer. “I won’t push. I just hope you know you can trust me with...whatever is bothering you.”

“I do. I do know that.” Arthur looked at Sir Tor, doing his best to keep his expression even and not let it crumble into something revealing, something cracked and broken like the emptiness inside him whenever Arthur failed to keep himself moving, to keep himself distracted from the darkness pervading even the deepest part of him. The store of happiness he’d managed to build over the last few months never lasted long when he failed to keep himself distracted. His warm and concerned gaze unwavering, Sir Tor stared right back at him. “I trust you as much as I trust Merlin. I’ve just...struggled with eating in the past and I don’t want to risk renewing that struggle. We’ll talk about it after supper, after we’ve relocated inside the tent. It isn’t a discussion for the open air.”

Sir Tor offered his immediate understanding and fell silent beside him as the quails finished roasting, their steaming flesh still skewered with crossbow bolts. The crossbow bolts spared them from burning their fingers as Arthur and Sir Tor dived into their roasted supper, their silence ongoing and almost comfortable. Arthur appreciated the warmth that settled inside him with each mouthful and the crackle of crisp skin was music to his ears.

Once he was finished supper, feeling full and just the right amount of heavy, Arthur licked and suckled the grease from his fingers and hummed in quiet appreciation before licking the last residue from his lips. He rose from the ground and instructed the magic to kill the flames and eradicate the evidence of his campfire. He disappeared inside the tent and poured two goblets of wine from the carafe that had been delivered that morning; an unexpected and much appreciated gift from the Queen of Wessex. It was enchanted to remain at the perfect temperature. Sir Tor joined him not long after, sidling up behind Arthur, his strong and affectionate arms winding around him as though the Knight just couldn’t help himself. It wasn’t unlike his own refusal to move after he’d assured himself that Merlin wasn’t going to die after his fatal encounter with the Questing Beast. Arthur settled back against Sir Tor and hummed in welcome as he tipped his head back to rest against that strong shoulder, turning his head and managing a small smile. Sir Tor squeezed him closer, nuzzling his face for a moment.

Arthur turned in his arms and offered one of the goblets without a word. His smile grew a fraction when Sir Tor kissed his cheek before accepting, the press of his lips quick and warm and comforting, and Arthur darted in to press a soft kiss against his scarred cheek in return. He and Sir Tor shared a smile and then Arthur looked away, wrapping his hand around his own goblet and taking a long mouthful. Its warmth coursed down through him at once. He swallowed another long mouthful and then another, heedless of the surprised expression washing across scarred features. The new emptiness of his goblet stared at him in accusation a moment later; Arthur slipped away, unlacing his boots and whipping off his stockings before he climbed into bed. He didn’t turn over this time. He couldn’t face the thought of looking at Sir Tor while discussing the King, discussing all the pain he’d suffered in Camelot – not just what the guards had witnessed and spread through the castle. He had no doubt that his friend had heard about that much at least.

His eyes squeezed shut when Sir Tor climbed onto the bed at last and settled behind him without a word. Something wet slipped down over his nose when the Knight wrapped one of those strong arms around him once more and shuffled closer, pressing right up against his back in a show of strength and support. Arthur drew in a shaking breath as words welled in the back of his throat and then shuddered free in a long stream. He started at the beginning, from the first moment he’d been alone with the King, and continued up until the night he’d been waiting for his execution. His voice remained steady, mostly, but still waivered during a few of the worst memories: he’d grown accustomed to opening up over the last year, but he doubted he’d ever be so comfortable that he could talk about it without some strangled show of emotion.

His voice was hoarse when Arthur finished speaking at last and his dear friend started trembling, breathing hard as his powerful arm tightened around him almost to the point of pain. Arthur clutched his hand and interlaced their fingers. He pulled their joined hands up over his heart and pressed the palm close. He focused on his breathing, hoping to calm his friend down in the process of calming himself down. Less than a moment later, however, his hard breathing grew choked and Sir Tor crushed him even closer, his face buried against his hair.

“Tor,” Arthur whispered hoarsely, turning over slowly, carefully, so he could face the man that might have become his lover under different circumstances. He cupped that scarred and familiar face with gentle hands. A painful shudder rippled through him and then continued through Sir Tor, who choked back a quiet sob. Aching, Arthur pressed kiss after kiss against the scarred features he adored so much until he started choking on his own tears. “Please...please don’t weep. I can’t bear it. Tor, I _let_ him hurt me.”

“Don’t you dare do that.” Arthur was crushed against the soft mattress less than a moment later, Sir Tor snarling over him. He swallowed the faint twinge of discomfort that rose when he glanced at the wrists now pinioned to the pillow on either side of his head. He looked back up at Sir Tor, whose eyes were still welling; his eyelashes were sodden with tears that fell unhindered. Hot tears dripped down to splash on Arthur, who blinked his own vision clear at once. “Don’t you dare take the damned blame for what he did – for what he chose to do to you.”

“I had choices too.” Arthur swallowed thickly, staring up at Sir Tor. His throat tightened for a moment before he managed to speak again. He voiced the thoughts that had plagued him when he’d first begun his healing, thoughts he’d done his best to eradicate over the last year. He knew it wasn’t healthy; in all honesty, it was detrimental to his health and yet he couldn’t escape it at times. He’d been plagued with it more than once during winter, the darkness returning in brief pulses when he wasn’t running himself ragged in his desperation to keep himself distracted. “I fought against Jeffrey, when we were children and when we were young men. I fought him and the others. I fought them all the time. But I chose not to fight the King.”

“Arthur,” Sir Tor croaked raggedly, the snarl fading, his muscled frame dropping to blanket him in a warm wall of love and comfort. He started pressing kisses against his face a moment later, each one wet and salty, and wonderful. His strong arms wound around him in a powerful embrace. His callused hands soothed over his hair; Arthur started trembling, his heart thumping, some of the darkest emotions he’d ever felt rising to the surface as he clung to Sir Tor in return. Powerful muscles rippled under his desperate hands with each heaving breath. “You chose no such thing; you weren’t in a position to fight back. Bayard was the King, and you were just one man in a sea of men serving him. You were unarmed and untrained. You were defenceless. What could you have done to fight back against a man of such skill and experience and power? You’d have been killed in an instant. Your loved ones would have been killed. You did what you had to and there is no shame in that. Don’t you dare forget that – not _ever_.”

“Tor –”

“I want you to repeat it back to me.”

“ _Tor_ –”

“Just do as you’re told! Repeat it to me now.”

Arthur swallowed at the hard and authoritative note in that familiar voice and looked away, his eyes squeezing shut as he forced himself to stammer hesitantly, “I...I did what I had to.”

“Look at me and repeat it again. I want you to be firmer now,” Sir Tor ordered immediately, channelling the commanding presence he’d often used when dealing with the Knights in Camelot.

“I did what I had to.” Arthur looked at his friend and said it again without much prompting. He said it over and over, drawing strength from the command issued and the wall of muscles braced over him in a protective manner. His voice grew firmer. His chest swelled around the words until he almost believed the phrase he was repeating, his desperate grip easing, his doubts and fears fading. “I did what I had to.”    


	50. Chapter Forty-Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, folks. 
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think! Your thoughts are like cookies and cookies are delicious.

Sir Tor was an excellent swordsman.

It didn’t take a mastermind to figure that out.

Sir Tor was quick and powerful and fearless in the arena. His movements were both fluid and dynamic. His mind was clever, ensuring the experienced Knight remained three steps ahead of his opponent at all times. Arthur watched him fight in silence and marvelled at the tight control and sheer power on display, wondering how someone could ever be disinclined to wed an exquisite man like Sir Tor, who’d have made a considerate lover and an even more considerate husband. His brow furrowed. His mouth twisted with no small amount of confusion. He started fiddling with his ancestral ring, his frown deepening, and looked down at his hands while the fight continued down in the ring. Arthur knew Merlin loved him immensely, and also knew that their souls had been bound together in love for countless centuries now...but sometimes he still couldn’t shake the thought that Sir Tor would have been a better match for the Crown Prince of Camelot and Mercia. He’d have been stable and grounding, someone reliable: he wouldn’t fall to pieces without provocation – unlike him.

Arthur forced his palms to rest flat on his thighs instead of fidgeting and swallowed the surge of bitterness that rose in his throat. He forced himself to sit up and raise his chin in quiet defiance. He squared his shoulders instead of hunching over, instead of doing his best to disappear from view as though he were ashamed to be seen in public. It wasn’t his fault that he’d suffered. That he was still suffering. He repeated those phrases over and over, taking strength from the words as the magic sent a warm pulse of comfort into his chest. His mouth curled around a small smile when the reinforcing words filtered through him and strengthened his confidence. Arthur focused his attention on the fight still taking place in the ring, focused on watching Sir Tor break through each defence like horsemen through the frontline. Triumph surged in his gut when Sir Tor obliterated his opponent – one of several strong representatives from Dyfed – from the tournament with one last expert flourish of his sword and an alarming snarl.

Sir Tor had harboured a deep determination to wipe the lot of them out of the tournament since he’d learned of the proposition their King had made regarding Arthur and the forced use of him in bed. He’d vibrated with muted rage when he’d stepped into the ring that morning, his sharpened sword a lethal promise in his large hand.

His muscled frame still vibrated with muted rage when Sir Tor glanced towards his row in the stands and sheathed his blade with one quick motion. Arthur cheered loudly, his hands stinging from clapping, his face aching from grinning. It didn’t matter that Sir Tor couldn’t see him: his friend was still worth applauding at the end of his match. If a spark of dark satisfaction glimmered within Arthur, it was his own business and no one would be the wiser, save for the select few he’d trusted with the knowledge of that horrendous and despicable proposition.  

Resisting the urge to go down and congratulate Sir Tor in person was difficult. He wasn’t sure how he managed to remain seated as Sir Tor headed away, his squire following behind him at once. He wasn’t sure how he managed to remain behind and watch the next match and the next until the first round was over at last.

Arthur and his companions returned to his tent as soon as the first round ended. He and Morgana discussed the victors from the various matches and their notable strengths and weaknesses. She highlighted all the victors who’d have the best chance of defeating him in the second round – and it wasn’t a surprise to see Sir Tor was included among them. He’d have expected no less. Frowning and listening to his sister, Arthur poured them both a goblet of wine and offered some to Sir Lancelot and Sir Kay, both of whom declined immediately; Arthur poured Ninianne a fraction of a goblet and mixed it with water, diluting its potency, but leaving the pleasant flavour. Arthur smiled when the young witch beamed at him at once and inhaled the scent of fermented summer berries before savouring a small sip. He smoothed a hand over her copper hair, which she’d kept lose apart from the white neckerchief keeping it out of her face.

He knew Ninianne wore the neckerchief as a small reminder of her new home in Tintagel Castle: a reminder of her cherished mother, and of her beloved father, who served the Queen of Cornwall now as a Knight of the Realm. Sir Lamorak was an appreciated addition to her impressive forces – the elder Knight had experiences against some magical creatures that even her own experienced men lacked.

“Watch out for that fellow from Amata.” Morgana gave him a shrewd glance over her goblet as the pair settled at the nearest table. “If all things were fair, I think you could take him easily, but that man has an unscrupulous streak in him a mile wide. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him and neither should you.”

“I’m not sure I should trust warriors from Amata in general.”

“Generally, I’d agree with you.” Morgana grew serious in an instant. She set her goblet down on the table with force enough to startle him. “However, not all Amatians are like King Sarrum – most of the common folk and even some of the nobles aren’t. I’ve met more than a few of them while working on behalf of Morgause and Essetir – negotiating trade routes and the like. I’ve found that a large number of his subjects are just following orders because Sarrum is the King. He is cold and cruel and merciless and his people are afraid. You know how that feels.”

“But I didn’t have someone to help me.” Arthur stared down into the contents of his goblet and remembered the intense isolation and despair he’d felt whenever Merlin wasn’t distracting him with chores and affection and teasing banter. “I was alone.”

“But you weren’t alone!”

Arthur looked at his squire and felt something soften inside him at the mixture of pure indignation and raw love on her youthful face. He reached out and gripped her narrow shoulder in warm understanding, not to mention a large measure of gratitude.

Ninianne captured his hand and squeezed.

“I want you to know I appreciate the offer of solidarity, but you were a child then. You’re still a child now. I’d never have asked you to commit treason against the King, not when it would mean risking your life for someone you hadn’t known long at all. I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing you hurt. Nor would I have asked your brother or your parents. Rising up against a cruel tyrant is one thing, but rising up against one of your kin is quite another; the latter would be so much harder to bear. It would be foolish to think otherwise.” Arthur stared at Ninianne until the young witch nodded reluctantly, her indignation faltering at the mention of her elder brother, their beloved Merlin. Grief rippled across her features and then disappeared behind a mask of quiet understanding. Arthur squeezed her hand in return and then released her from his grip before looking at Morgana again. “One man couldn’t rise up and depose a King, but if what you claim is true...then the people of Amata have a greater chance at starting a rebellion than I ever did. Someone needs to band them together and lead them against him.”

“Are you offering?” Morgana arched an eyebrow. Her mouth thinned with frustration and her nostrils flared as she straightened in her chair; her magic sparked around her in a show of power. She reined her power back when the magic in his crystal gave a warning pulse in opposition. “Unless you’re offering, Arthur, I don’t think you have the right to judge what those people can and can’t do for themselves. Inspiring a rebellion is harder than you think and rebellions don’t work all the time. I know that from experience.”

Arthur swallowed thickly, staring at his sister, hearing the challenge in both her words and tone. He cleared his throat and looked away, murmuring, “I can’t be in all places at once. I still have Cornwall to consider, and a prospective new realm to bring under her banner at some point in the near future. I can’t burden her with too much too soon. I’ll have to bring Albion together in stages: one realm at a time. I’m afraid the Amatians will have to wait their turn – much as I loathe admitting it.”

“Have you spoken to Merewald about Wessex yet?”

“Not yet.” Arthur winced and sipped his wine without looking at his sister, his frame tensing under the close scrutiny; he could feel the sharp edge of her endless stare cutting into him. He didn’t even have to look at her to know she wasn’t pleased with his reluctant admission. “Just the thought of doing so makes me anxious. I’m not sure whether she’d encourage me or not. I haven’t been back in her life for long and acceptance would mean leaving again.”

“Arthur,” Morgana said gently, leaning across the table to capture his hand and giving it a warm squeeze. Her whole demeanour softened as she continued to speak to him in a comforting manner. “Merewald wanted you comfortable with leaving Cornwall before you even came here. You shouldn’t decline the wonderful chance you’ve been given just because you think she might be upset. You have to remember: Wessex isn’t far from Cornwall – if you needed something, your aunt would be here after a single flight and vice versa. It isn’t as though you’d be moving to the continent. I think you’re fretting over something almost inconsequential.”

“Maybe.”

His quiet admission sounded small and vulnerable even to his own ears and Arthur coughed to clear his throat once more. He swallowed a long mouthful of wine and rose from his chair, stretching his arms overhead until something cracked. He groaned at the sudden release of tension. He settled back down then and spread an arm in blatant welcome. Her expression brightening, Ninianne rose and pulled her chair closer, settling back down a moment later and leaning into his side after setting her diluted wine on the table in front of her. Arthur wrapped his arm around her, squeezing her growing frame closer, letting himself take comfort in her warmth and affection while avoiding the knowing expression Morgana directed at him. He pressed a kiss against the top of her head when Ninianne wrapped a warm arm around his middle. Arthur looked down at his squire fondly, more than aware that her boundless love was a gift too precious to be squandered.

In all honesty, Arthur loved looking after Ninianne. He loved ensuring her good health and happiness. He loved being responsible for her and hoped Merlin wouldn’t mind that he’d taken the reins since he’d started his own recovery; someone had to do so in his absence and Arthur would trust a limited few to get that close to the impressionable young witch. Children her age were vulnerable – Merewald was proof of that. Arthur pressed another kiss against her head and knew he’d do all in his power to keep this bright spark safe from harm.

He’d do his best to keep all of his future subjects safe from harm – even when doing so meant making hard decisions. Such was the life of a monarch that earned the love and respect of their people. He’d learned that much since he’d served as manservant to the Crown Prince of Camelot and Mercia.

He’d do his best to live up to that standard.

“I think you should contact Merewald and discuss it with her now.” Gold flared in her eyes as Morgana let her magic surge through and around her. She summoned a basin to the table and proceeded to fill it with water, choosing to ignore the frustrated and somewhat anxious glance Arthur threw at her. “We both know time waits for no one. Sometimes all we can do is grab the horns of life and wrestle it to the ground before it can gore us.”

His stomach writhed with anxiety; Arthur watched his sister invoke words from the old tongue and did his best to ignore the shiver that ran down his spine as the endless power soaking the earth eddied around him. He’d grown more sensitive to the presence of that hidden magic since he’d become more attuned to the crystal hanging around his neck and more attuned to the bond that dwelled deep within his core. Arthur swallowed when Morgana pushed the basin over to him and he looked down to see Merewald blinking, her face slack with surprise.

“Arthur,” Merewald said a moment later, her surprise fading into a warm smile as she continued to peer down into her goblet. He couldn’t help smiling in return. He’d missed her since he’d left Cornwall. “How are you?”

“I’m doing well enough.” Arthur waved a vague hand in dismissal and his companions left him alone to confer with the Queen of Cornwall. The ladies took their goblets of wine with them. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you as well – so much. Training hasn’t been the same without you.”

“I need to tell you something,” Arthur blurted almost immediately, his smile faltering as a pang of guilt gnawed at his stomach. His fingers twitched. He curled his hands into fists to prevent himself from reaching for his ancestral ring; he drew in a calming breath and then relaxed his hands as he took a moment to count in his head. He straightened his spine and squared his shoulders as the magic offered an encouraging pulse of warmth. He’d faced the King of Camelot and Mercia in the past and he’d survived. He could do this. He could talk to his aunt about what he’d learned since arriving in Dorchester. “I spoke with the Queen of Wessex when I arrived here and I learned something I wasn’t expecting; I’m hoping you’ll grant me counsel regarding the matter.”

“Arthur, granting you counsel was one of the countless duties assigned to me when you were born.” Merewald offered a warm laugh and her image loomed closer, as though she were hunching over her goblet. Her whole face warmed. “You can talk to me about whatever you want.”

“I was named the Heir of Wessex when I was born and the Queen wants to abdicate as soon as possible.” Arthur pushed the words out in a thick stream before he could talk himself back out of the situation. “She wants to leave control of her realm with me.”

“I’ll admit I wasn’t expecting to hear that.” Merewald frowned at him through the water. Contemplation and concern waged war across her features. “How do you know this isn’t some trap? As far as I remember, Queen Wynnfrith and Bayard don’t have an alliance ongoing, but I could be wrong. How do you know she doesn’t plan to turn you over as soon as you accept?”

An answering frown furrowing his brow, Arthur explained what he knew about the Once and Future King and his intended purpose regarding the unification of Albion. He explained the importance of this figure to those who wielded magic or practiced the Old Religion. He mentioned the few conversations he’d had with Councillor Ares – who’d been convinced that Arthur was this figure. Arthur might have continued to discuss the various other conversations and encounters that had happened since he’d first learned of the Once and Future King, but the expression of fear and recognition flickering across familiar features made him falter, his own face twisting with concern at the sight.

Arthur leaned forward in his chair, murmuring, “Are you alright?”

“I’ve heard of this figure before.” Merewald lunged out of the frame of her goblet and her steps receded at a speed that knotted his stomach at once. He heard her rummaging through various cupboards and drawers. Her voice carried through the water continuously, due to the magical connection remaining so strong, but Arthur had to lean closer to catch the words his aunt spoke. Naturally, distance had muted her voice somewhat. “Nimueh mentioned him when we were young, after she and her kin sought refuge here from Dyfed. Your mother was one of the few friends the young witch ever made here. Nimueh explained to your mother and I that she’d been at a feast with her parents and made the mistake of mentioning the Once and Future King and his purpose in front of their King, who’d taken affront at the idea of being subservient to another man. The King of Dyfed at the time much preferred to exert his own power over others. I’ve heard his successor isn’t much better than him now.”

Merewald came back into the frame of her goblet and waved a thick journal at Arthur, her expression tight with concentration. She opened the journal and began rifling through the endless pages covered with neat script. Eventually, she paused and started reading in silence.

Her expression tightened further before she looked up.

“I hope you’re not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting,” Merewald continued slowly, the same fear from a few moments earlier flickering in her eyes. She snapped the journal shut and her grip tightened until her knuckles whitened. She stared at Arthur, as though she couldn’t fathom the words that followed next. “Nimueh said all of the incarnations of this figure died in battle or as a result of battle – _all of them_. Arthur, you need to know that I don’t want that future for you: you deserve to die an old man after a long and prosperous life!”

“What else did she say,” Arthur asked quietly, his stomach twisting as his thoughts jumped to Artura Pendragon and her beloved and powerful witch immediately, the pair of them falling within moments of each other, leaving an orphaned infant in their wake. He wondered whether she was one of them – one of the countless incarnations of himself that had walked the earth before him. “Did she mention when or where? Did it happen in the same fashion each time or did the circumstances leading up to it change? What about the person responsible? Was it the same person over and over or did the person change depending on the circumstances? We can’t just assume this matter is set in stone before we know more about it.”

“I don’t know,” Merewald answered immediately, her fear faltering for a brief moment. The journal moved out of sight and Arthur heard the faint sound of a book landing hard upon wood. “She never said. The one thing I do know is that Nimueh hoped the Once and Future King would have better luck when he returned this time. She was confident that he’d return – she claimed that there were portents making an appearance all over Albion throughout her childhood. I suppose...I suppose she must have been right.”

“I’ve met her in the past – more than once. Actually, she was the reason I ever learned of existence in the first place.” Arthur straightened in his chair and squared his shoulders all over again. He levelled a firm stare at Merewald as the magic offered another warm pulse of comfort. “Nimueh believed I was the Once and Future King when we spoke and so does the Queen of Wessex. She named me her successor for that reason. I’d like to know what you think I should do.”

“I think you should do what you think is right or whatever would be the best for your current wellbeing, but I’m not in a position to judge what that answer is.” Merewald rubbed her jaw and turned away, turning to look out the window. Arthur was convinced he could almost hear the waves crashing below the castle. He wished he could see them. He missed the sight of those calming waves. “Honestly, I can’t make this decision for you. You have to make it on your own. What do you think you should do?”

“I think I’d be a fool to give this chance up.” His confidence faltered as the admission escaped him. Arthur reached for his ring then and started fiddling, his contemplative frown deepening. His mouth twisted with doubt and no small amount of fear. “I think this would be the first step in accomplishing something much greater, but I’m not sure I’m capable of doing this without your guidance. You have so much more experience than me and you’re a wonderful ruler, and I feel like your guidance would benefit me for years more.”

“Arthur, I’ve been making this up as I go – before and after Agravaine took control of me and subsequent control of the throne.” Merewald turned to look at him all over again and her expression grew harder, but burdened with emotion. “Most of the years I spent ruling were spent under the control of someone else. I’m not some brilliant monarch with endless experience upon which you can rely; I wake up each morning and I have to live with the fact that most of the decisions these hands and this mouth have ever made were choices Agravaine forced me to make while he struggled to contain a smirk behind me. I have to live with knowing the praise I received over the years is praise for the brother that violated me for more than two decades. Can you even fathom how difficult that is?”

His stomach twisting, Arthur looked down and then away, the apple in his throat bobbing as he swallowed. He drew in a calming breath and managed to murmur, “I didn’t mean to upset you or remind you of him. I’ve never wanted to do that. I’m just...I don’t know...I suppose I’m afraid that I’ll make an enormous mistake and I’d need you to counsel me until I can make it better; you’ve never seemed to be at a loss for what to say, or even for what to do until now.”

“Arthur,” Merewald answered gently, summoning his attention back to the water immediately, “all we ever do in life is make one mistake after another. It doesn’t mean something wonderful can’t arise from them. Nor does it mean we don’t learn from those mistakes. You’ve learned from mistakes in the past and you can do so again. Arthur, you can be as good a ruler as you allow yourself to be – sometimes that means trusting your own judgement when a situation arises. Seek counsel when necessary, certainly, but the leading force in your life should be your own conscience. What does your conscience tell you?”

“That I should accept while I have the chance.”

“Then I guess you have your answer,” Merewald said softly, a small smile curling her mouth. She looked like she wanted to reach through the water and envelop him in a warm hug. Arthur wanted to do the same just as much. He wanted to press his face against her hair and take comfort in the warmth she often offered. He wanted to squeeze her, ensuring she knew how much he appreciated each moment of time she’d ever devoted to being his aunt and his dear friend. Arthur knew running out of time was all too easy, no matter how often one tried to make their feelings known. He’d learned there would never be enough time for the most important things in life – from treasured moments spent together in public to soft and sentimental words spoken in private. “I’m glad you chose to talk to me about this. I do appreciate it.”

“I appreciate that you’re willing to listen – even when doing so brings terrible memories rushing to the surface. Dealing with that isn’t easy; I know that.” Arthur looked down at his hands and then back up at his aunt. “I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“I have nothing to forgive you for; I hope you’ll forgive me for making it sound like I did. I never intended that.” Merewald looked around for something, glanced down at the water, and then rubbed her face as she laughed at herself. She lowered her hand and shook her head. Her smile fractured. “It just gets frustrating, you know, all the praise from the people around me. Hearing how great I am when most of their praise is for something that wasn’t even because of the real me. You’d think I’d be used to it at this point.”

“I’m not sure we ever get used to that sort of the thing,” Arthur answered softly, his expression turning pensive. His urge to wrap his aunt up in a warm hug strengthened tenfold. “Do you need me to come back?”

“Don’t be stupid.” Merewald heaved a sigh and shook her head again. Her smile returned and grew still warmer with affection. “I’m the one who encouraged you to compete in the first place. I can’t encourage you to be comfortable with leaving, and then turn around and become uncomfortable with you leaving, Arthur. But I do miss you. I miss spending our lunches together.”

“I miss that too.” His vision blurred. Arthur blinked and looked away, his heart clenching in his chest. He ignored the single tear that slipped down his cheek. He rubbed the back of his neck for a long moment. “I’ll miss that the most when I leave. But you’ll come visit me?”

“Nothing could keep me away,” Merewald said firmly, her expression warm and gentle and so loving when Arthur looked at her again. Her eyes shone with encouragement and pride. “I love you more than the whole world. You were the best thing that happened to me in so long, Arthur, _so long_ , and I’ll _never_ be able to express how grateful I am that we found each other. One day, when your lover and I meet finally, I’m going to thank him for looking after you as much as he could under the circumstances. I might never have had the chance to meet you otherwise.”

“You’d like to meet him?”

“Absolutely,” Merewald answered immediately, her expression growing firm. “You love him and he makes you happy; both of those are reason enough to make me want to meet him. I’ll just have to get over the fact that Bayard is his kin.”

“You’re not the only one.”

“I figured you’d be over it at this point.”

“I meant Merlin.” Arthur sighed miserably, his heart breaking all over again as he remembered the terror and anguish Bayard had put Merlin through. He rubbed a tired hand over his face. “He loved his uncle. He knew a side of the man I never did and never will. He’ll have to reconcile the man that helped raise him with the man that took his beloved magic away, and then led him to believe that I’m dead a month later before imprisoning him in his own personal chambers.”

“ _What?_ ”

Nodding gravely, Arthur plunged into an immediate explanation of what had transpired with Sir Tor the other day, beginning from the moment he’d sent the message and ending with the explanation from his friend. Merewald listened in complete silence and drained of more and more colour with each passing moment. She buried her face in her hands and drew in a shaking breath.

“That poor boy,” Merewald whispered eventually, her hands sliding down to reveal a smile of grim determination. “Bayard is disgusting; he deserves to rot for what he did. He can’t be allowed to succeed with this much longer.”

“I’m not in a position where I can face Bayard yet.” Arthur tensed at the mere notion of facing the King, his skin breaking out in a cold sweat as he couldn’t help but imagine being within a foot of that abusive bastard again. His throat constricted at the thought. He forced himself to continue speaking despite the constriction: he had to get his point across. “I know I’m not. Succeeding the Queen of Wessex is one thing, but facing Bayard where he’ll have the upper hand is quite another, and I’m not ready. I’m not.”

“I never said you had to face him immediately, but we could start planning something. Arthur, you’ve said before that the common people and most of the mages turned against him on the morning of your execution: would it be possible for Sir Tor to get in touch with them? We could start filtering them down to the south through the Port of Gedref when you secure an alliance with Nemeth. If we can get the people away, and continue to find some more dissidents to take from the King, we could start setting things in motion. It’ll take time...but it would be possible – provided Sir Tor can help us. I’d suggest you ask him about it before the tournament draws to a close.”

“I will.”


	51. Chapter Fifty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, folks.
> 
> Please forgive Arthur for his all-over-the-place emotions. As I'm sure you can imagine: being in the same general area as someone who tormented him for years isn't easy, and his mind is on a precarious edge when others talk about Jeffrey, and things the vicious brute often did/said to him through the years. His mental health could topple either way, under the right circumstances. He is doing his best but his best doesn't work all the time. 
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think. I love hearing your thoughts.

Black ink still stained his fingers when Arthur darted out of his tent that evening, the hood of his cloak raised to cover his hair, and his eyes casting a surreptitious sweep around the tournament grounds. His senses remained alert and the magic remained watchful as Arthur slipped between the various tents until he found himself facing the Nemetian green one. He steeled himself and then burst through the entrance with his hands raised in blatant surrender, a cold sweat breaking out along the curve of his back as three large and muscular men lunged from their chairs and drew their blades before Arthur could even blink. He remained as still as stone while one Knight pressed the tip of his lethal blade just below his chin and another Knight wrenched his hood down to reveal his fair hair and blue eyes. One of them inhaled sharply; Arthur looked at him and a dull jolt of recognition shot through him. He’d been one of the visiting Knights present when Arthur drank the poison intended for Merlin during the official visit from King Rodor and his daughter.

“I bear a letter for your King,” Arthur said quietly, speaking to the one man who could vouch for his decency, “regarding Crown Prince Merlin of Camelot and Mercia. I have urgent news that he’ll want to hear.”

“How do we know you’re you?”

“You’ll just have to trust me. I can’t prove who I am: you don’t know me well enough for that. But I’ve come to you on behalf of Crown Prince Merlin and Merewald de Bois – the reigning Queen of Cornwall.” He and the Knight continued to stare at each other, neither of them willing to look away, not even for a moment. Unease and recognition flickered across that familiar and nameless face. Clearly, his aunt wasn’t unknown in Nemeth. It was a relief to feel sharpened steel fall away, leaving him free of danger as the three Knights retreated at last and allowed him some room to breathe. Arthur gave them all a measured stare and a nod of gratitude before reaching beneath his white cloak and withdrawing the sealed letter he’d written to King Rodor. He handed it over to the main Knight without hesitation. “It is imperative that this letter reaches King Rodor as soon as possible. Is that clear?”

“Very,” the Knight answered immediately, his eyes flickering over his pristine white cloak and taking note of the red gryphon emblazoned upon the shoulder. He took note of the fine clothes worn beneath in the same sweep. His tone turned inquisitive. “Are you just a Knight or are you...ah...ranked higher now? I know the Queen of Cornwall is your kin.”

“Higher,” Arthur confirmed immediately, tipping his head just so. His spine remained straight and his shoulders remained squared. He raised his chin in a quiet show of confidence and authority, swallowing the urge to smirk in amusement as the three Knights reacted to his silent change in demeanour almost automatically, their muscled frames straightening at once and standing at attention. His tone sharpened. “I’m the Crown Prince of Cornwall now and you’ll address me as such from here onward. Needless to say, no one from Camelot and Mercia can know that I’ve been to see you. Prince Merlin and Her Highness won’t be pleased should word of this spread to the representatives of that realm.”

Arthur chose not to wait to receive a reply, sweeping out of the tent amid a swirl of his white cloak instead. He stifled a childish burst of laughter as he drew the hood over his hair again and hastened away, his steps quick and silent across the grass as his cloak billowed behind him. Stars sparkled overhead. A cool breeze rifled through his clothes and a shiver raced down his spine when it found the cold sweat lining the curve of his back. He quickened his pace. He wanted to return to his tent before he caught a chill from the night air; it wouldn’t do to come down with the sweating sickness before the second round could even begin.

He wanted to do well on behalf of Cornwall.

Arthur hoped to make it to the fourth round at least. He could lose without an ounce of shame then: reaching the fourth round would be an immense accomplishment for an inexperienced swordsman like him.

He’d just stepped into his tent when the magic tingled in warm anticipation and mild warning, giving him less than a moment to smile in delight before a familiar figure surged out of the shadows beside him. Strong arms wound around him and gripped him tight. His own arms slipped around powerful shoulders and squeezed him closer, treasuring the chance to be near him. Arthur hadn’t seen Sir Tor all day, not since he’d watched the Knight leave the ring, and it was wonderful now to inhale the soft scent of soap and the strong scent of ale that accompanied it.

“It took you long enough to get here.”

“Sorry,” mumbled Sir Tor, whose hands slid down over his backside to grip the back of his thighs and pull before Arthur could even gasp in surprise. His legs wrapped around him automatically, just to ensure Arthur didn’t fall on his arse and injure something. Magic helped them regain their balance and then supported their combined weight when Sir Tor stumbled between heaving Arthur into his arms and depositing him upon the nearest table with a strained grunt of effort. An awkward laugh escaped Arthur, whose face heated as his friend started nuzzling at his neck and then his shoulder, his muscled frame shaking. Sir Tor moved upwards and started nuzzling at his face. His breath ghosted hot and damp over his skin and Arthur started shivering, a warm and pleasant tingle running down his spine. Arthur raised a hand to nudge at him and then faltered as Sir Tor continued speaking, stopping and starting, his words slurring. “That damned bastard wouldn’t leave me alone for a single damned minute. He wouldn’t even shut up. He was drunk and talking about...about when you were children...reminiscing about shoving you into the dirt and beating you to a damned pulp. I wanted to rip him a new face. Normally, I don’t drink when competing, but I had to. I had to. I couldn’t listen to that bastard talking shit about you all night without...without some fortification.”

Arthur softened with understanding immediately, knowing he couldn’t have listened to such a crude and vicious tirade about such violence against Merlin or Sir Tor – no matter how determined he was to do so. He cradled the scarred face he cherished so much with both hands and urged the Knight into stillness. Arthur pressed their brows together and his eyes fluttered closed.

“Aren’t you a regular white knight in shining armour,” Arthur murmured warmly, his mouth curling in a small smile as Sir Tor shuffled even closer. His eyes drifted back open. “I bet you were a minute from challenging him to a round in the ring.”

“More like a minute from finding him a shallow grave.” Sir Tor glowered darkly, a rather serious expression offset against the warm and somewhat handsome flush of alcoholic fervour. His expression eased then and grew soft with startled awe as Sir Tor continued to hold him. His large hands started roaming, his touch stilted and clumsy, but adoring as he clutched at broad hips and thick thighs and tangled the fingers of one strong hand in the laces of his tunic. He tugged Arthur still closer in the process. Hot and damp breath that smelled of ale ghosted across his mouth. “How could that piece of shit be so awful to you? You’re lovely, so lovely,” Sir Tor enthused fervently, earning another burst of awkward laughter from Arthur, who flushed with growing embarrassment. Sir Tor broke free of his cradling hands and started nuzzling his face with increased fervour, repeating the compliment over and over, his lips grazing against his jaw and then along his vulnerable neck with wet and open kisses even as he spoke.

Desire jolted down his spine when unexpected teeth grazed his sensitive skin.

“Tor,” Arthur exhaled raggedly, his back arching, a hoarse and unexpected moan of pleasure catching in his throat when Sir Tor nibbled his sensitive skin even harder; a strangle noise escaped him when a third deliberate bite made his hips stutter against the hot erection his friend bore. His own manhood hardened in mounting interest. A muffled curse escaped Arthur as pleasure spiked through him. One shaking hand dropped to capture the one resting less than an inch from his aching arousal before a callused thumb could caress his weeping head through his trousers. His grip grew tight and controlling as he pulled that hand away, but never harsh and painful. Arthur gripped a strong shoulder with his other hand and pushed with enough force to make Sir Tor stumble back a step. His voice grew firmer, but remained somewhat kind and understanding as drunken adoration morphed into an expression of belated and sickened realisation. His dear friend drained of colour behind the warm flush of alcoholic fervour. “Tor, you know we can’t start something, not when you’re drunk. Not when Merlin isn’t here to discuss it with us. Granting you a kiss when you needed some comfort was one thing, but this is something else. You have to stop now before you do something you’ll come to regret in the morning. Do you understand?”

“I’m sorry,” Sir Tor choked out as he pulled away, sinking down on the nearest chair and staring at the floor. His scarred face twisted with sickened grief. Tears glistened in the darkness around them. Sir Tor buried his face in shaking hands then. His voice grew so muffled that Arthur had to strain to hear the words that soon followed. Arthur slipped down from the table and drew closer, his own expression softening, his heart clenching in sympathetic anguish and his throat constricting with his own surge of tender emotion. Sir Tor jerked back in his chair when Arthur dared to touch his shoulder and began babbling. “I never meant to touch you like that. I just wanted you to know how wonderful you are. How much I love you. I wanted you to know I can’t bear to hear that bastard talking about you. I just wanted you to know that I care. I know you don’t love me the same way, or as much or _whatever_ , but I thought you were dead for so long and now I know you’re still living, and I’m so _happy_ , but that bastard is...and I can’t...I can’t...” Sir Tor shook his head. He began laughing, the sound strangled and almost verging on hysteria. He looked at Arthur, who’d captured his wrists and pulled his hands away; Arthur forced him to reveal the scarred face he cherished so much. He forced him to look him in the eye as the explanation continued to bubble free. “I’ve never wanted to hurt someone so much before...apart from when the King...when the King...”

Sir Tor shuddered in the chair and Arthur found himself stepping still closer, his heart tearing down the middle at the broken noise that escaped his dear friend. He wasn’t surprised when Sir Tor threw his arms around him and crushed his scarred face against his belly, and Arthur swallowed thickly, staring down at him as the courageous and loving Knight wept hard into his tunic. Strong hands fisted the back of his cloak in anguished desperation. Arthur buried one hand in loose hair and let the other rub between quaking shoulders. He made no attempt to calm his weeping, knowing it was better to leave such things out when given the opportunity, knowing Sir Tor would feel much better once he’d purged some of the anguish from his heart. He murmured quiet encouragements and soft assurances as his friend continued weeping, clutching at him with an air of desperation that Arthur recognised all too well. He held him until Sir Tor slackened with exhaustion and the tears stopped coming, the Knight too drained to keep purging his emotions much longer.

“Come on now,” Arthur urged gently, helping him rise from the chair, supporting his drained and drunken friend as he led Sir Tor to the bed in the corner. He sat him down and then knelt to unlace his boots. Sir Tor watched him with a quizzical frown on his face despite the sore skin swelling around his eyes. Smiling warmly, Arthur pulled his boots off and then his stockings before tackling the belt that would make sleeping so uncomfortable. He gave the Knight a gentle nudge. “Go on: get under the covers.”

“I can’t stay,” mumbled Sir Tor, though he moved as ordered and flopped onto the soft and comfortable mattress. Arthur watched him press half his face into the pillows and suck in one shaking breath and then another, his muscled frame mellowing even further. His heart clenched as he realised Sir Tor was inhaling and memorising his scent. One dazed eye remained locked upon Arthur, turned away, hastening to remove his cloak and change into his nightwear. He climbed into bed and settled down opposite Sir Tor, who’d shifted onto his side to face him in full. “He’ll get suspicious.”

“Tell him you spent the night with a prostitute.”

“You’d make a terrible prostitute.”

“Not perverse or confident enough for your tastes?”

“Don’t be stupid.” Sir Tor chuckled exhaustedly, raising an arm in question. Arthur shuffled closer immediately, his own frame mellow and pliant and eager despite the remembered heat of arousal still lingering between his thighs. Sir Tor wound his arm around him and drew him still closer, a relieved a smile brightening his face. A small smile curled his own mouth as Sir Tor continued speaking, mumbling into his shoulder. “You’re just too soft to deal with half the men that stumble into a brothel at night.”

Sir Tor was dozing less than a moment later, and Arthur smiled against his loose hair as he draw the blankets closer, tucking them both under the covers. He pressed a gentle kiss against that loose hair and settled down to sleep the night through.

Groaning, Sir Tor stumbled out of bed in the morning, clutching his head with a shaking hand and vowing to never drink so much ale again. Arthur chuckled quietly, and then started yawning, his spine arching up from the mattress as he stretched in a luxurious fashion. A soft groan escaped him as he settled back against the mattress.

Sir Tor glanced over his shoulder and made a face.

“How can you look so adorable in the morning,” Sir Tor demanded immediately, his voice somewhat irritable and deep and gravelly, and Arthur couldn’t help but chuckle even as he blushed in embarrassment. He looked down and away, his mouth curling around a warm and disbelieving smile. Sir Tor huffed out a noise of tired and pained frustration and climbed back onto the bed. His hands were rough and yet undemanding, cradling his face as he encouraged Arthur to look at him. His voice gentled and yet retained its roughened tones. “I meant it: you’re adorable in the morning, so adorable. I’d like to see a moment when you aren’t a perfect vision for once.”

“I’m not perfect.”

“Liar,” Sir Tor said gently, his voice still gravelly, his expression tender despite the shadows lingering under his eyes. His eyes roamed his face for a moment and then grew miserable. “I know I need to apologise for last night. I shouldn’t have taken how I felt out on you when I had you on that table. You trusted me and I took advantage of that because I was angry, because I was hurting, because you’re so beautiful inside that I can’t grasp how someone could hate you that much. How someone could gloat about hurting you like it was some sweet privilege.”

“I’m not angry,” Arthur answered softly, looking at his friend as he sat up and offering a tentative smile. He reached up and allowed a lone finger to graze one of the scars he treasured so much. “I’m not even that upset. I know you never meant to get so carried away; such a thing isn’t like you. You were drunk and you were upset. I know emotions can take us to terrible places sometimes. Obviously, I’m not excusing what happened...but I do understand. Maybe you should avoid drinking for a while?”

“Maybe I should stop visiting for a while.” Sir Tor ran a contemplative gaze over his face. “I should avoid temptation until things calm down or one of us has a chance to tear that bastard apart in the arena at last.”

“But I don’t want you to stop.”

“Arthur,” Sir Tor replied gently, a callused thumb stroking his cheek tenderly, “I don’t want to stop visiting, but I want you to be safe – even from me. If keeping you safe means no longer visiting, then I’ll do it in a heartbeat.”

“I feel safe with you.”

“I find that hard to believe after I pushed you last night.”

“I don’t.”

“Arthur –”

“Shut up. I’m talking now.” Sir Tor fell silent as soon as the authoritative tone made an appearance. His voice quietened then. Arthur allowed his hand to slip down and tangled his fingers in the laces in front of him. “I wasn’t disinterested in being touched last night. You’d have a broken hand otherwise or worse – the magic would have lashed out at you in an instant had I felt threatened for even a moment. The magic and I would never let someone get that close to me unless I trusted them. Tor, there isn’t an inch of me that doesn’t trust you: I know you’d never hurt me on purpose. I’ve had this same conversation with Merlin after he’d been drinking, after he’d shoved me down on his bed with the intention of kissing me or something, but Merlin passed out before a single thing happened. He still acted like he’d been a monster, as though he thought I’d never forgive him. He was being an idiot that morning and so are you now. I stopped you because you weren’t sober; letting you continue touching me last night would have been the same as taking advantage of you. Your judgement was clouded with alcohol. I’d never hurt you like that.” His fingers tightened around the laces in front of him as Arthur stared at Sir Tor. “Nor would it be fair or moral to start something without talking to Merlin first.”

“I know it isn’t fair to him.” Sir Tor crumpled with anguish. “I know that. I’ve never felt so disgusted over touching someone before. I know what I did was wrong; it doesn’t matter that you’re separated for now or that he doesn’t even know you’re alive. Or even that I was drunk! It was still wrong!”

“I don’t think distance counts as separation.”

“I’m sure you don’t. I know how much you love him.”

“I do. I love him more than the whole world and I know he loves me in return.”

“He does. Merlin loves you so much.” Strong hands slipped into his hair, their touch gentle and undemanding, loving and adoring. Arthur swallowed and curled his fingers around the wrist nearest his mouth. He pressed a soft kiss against that wrist and continued listening to Sir Tor, his expression warm and tender and welcoming in the face of such a show of emotion. Sir Tor drew him close and heaved a sigh. “Merlin loves you more than he ever loved me. I don’t blame him. But the fact remains: I shouldn’t have been so familiar with you last night. You’re not mine. You’re his. I shouldn’t have touched you like that or kissed you like that. I shouldn’t have even lifted you from the ground like I did – and not just because I’m aching in several places now.”

“Did you just suggest that I’m fat?” Arthur couldn’t help the injured note in his voice as he jerked his face away, his heart thumping. His hair caught on those strong fingers. His stomach tied itself into several knots. His hand dropped down to clutch at the tunic concealing his abdomen automatically, knuckles whitening as he remembered the stretch marks marring his skin in countless places. How their discolouration tarnished treasured memories whenever he glanced at his reflection in the mirror. He remembered that Sir Tor had seen the ones on his back the night before while he’d been changing into his nightwear before climbing into bed with him. His throat constricted. A cold sweat broke out on his skin as his lungs seized around a shaking breath. His tongue fumbled as Arthur struggled to push out the denial he’d been practicing in front of the mirror for months. “I’m not...I’m not fat.”

“Arthur, you’ve gained a lot of muscle mass since you left Camelot and muscle is rather heavy,” Sir Tor corrected calmly, but firmly, his eyes darkening with realisation and sudden understanding. His large hands prevented Arthur from bolting from the bed as soon as his shoulders started heaving, Arthur dragging in one harsh breath after another. His grip tightened. “It doesn’t mean I think you’re fat – not that being fat is something to strive against. Arthur, all warriors need extra padding: it comes in use as a reserve when we’re fighting over extended periods of time. We burn through so much of what we eat that we need to have extra for emergencies. We’d tire ourselves out otherwise.”

“I don’t want to have padding,” Arthur choked out almost immediately, struggling to get his throat and lungs back under his control. He didn’t want to be a mess of emotions today, not today, not in front of his friend. Not again. He struggled to calm himself down and knew he was losing the fight. Bitter vehemence rose within Arthur, who wrenched himself away, scrambling out of the bed and out of the reach of Sir Tor, who was watching him now with a distressed and sympathetic grief on his face. An uncontrollable wave of rage washed through Arthur when he caught his reflection on a piece of polished armour, his reflection on the verge of weeping and looking almost crazed before that powerful rage sent his arm sweeping, knocking his armour out of sight with a hoarse shout of pain. His shield and weapons followed less than a moment later. His chest heaving hard and his breath heavy, Arthur stared at the mess he’d made before turning away, his face seeking solace against his shaking palms a moment before he was crushed in a powerful embrace. His knees almost buckled as the rage left him suddenly, disappearing with the same speed with which it had arrived in the first place. “I don’t want to be like this.”

“You shouldn’t be ashamed to express your pain.” Sir Tor spoke quietly, his voice rough and yet still gentle. His large hand swept up and down along the curve of his back as Arthur burrowed closer, his hands the one barrier between his face and that strong shoulder. “You’re angry, and you’re allowed to be angry, considering all the shit that bastard put you through. You were a vulnerable child in need of friends and that brute took advantage of that. He took advantage of your disconnection. He took advantage of how warm and kind and soft and hopeful you are. That damned bastard trampled all over you and your splendour, though you never stopped shining, not once. You never let him beat that beautiful glow out of you. Arthur, you’re entitled to be angry, and venting is healthy, as long as you don’t start turning it on people. Armour doesn’t have a soul. It doesn’t have emotions. It can take your anger without flinching, without an ounce of fear, without feeling even a scrap of pain. Taking your anger out on armour is like shouting into the void: you’re hurting no one. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Arthur sniffled quietly, choking back the tired emotions still surging through him and reaching up to wind his arms around Sir Tor, who crushed him still closer. He pressed his face against a tunic ripe with the scent of stale ale and sleep and didn’t care that he was trembling, not when Sir Tor started brushing kisses against his mussed hair and continued to murmur soft assurances.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur mumbled eventually, withdrawing just enough to look at him. He swallowed past the lingering lump of emotion in his throat. “You’re bound to have a headache. I must have made it so much worse.”

“I can bear a headache.” Sir Tor kissed his forehead. His soothing hand never stopped moving, not for a single moment. “But I can’t bear seeing you upset. I hope you can forgive me for setting your emotions ablaze. I never meant to remind you of Jeffrey, or of all the foul things he must have said to you when you were young, but you need to know none of it was true. You aren’t whatever he said about you. You’re perfect.”

“I’m not perfect.” His voice cracked around the words and Arthur looked away, so he could focus on breathing, on counting in his head. His voice evened out. He looked at Sir Tor once more. “I’m damaged.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re not perfect.” Sir Tor kissed his forehead again. His mouth lingered for a moment in a show of warm affection. He drew back then and looked at Arthur, one hand coming to cradle his face. His callused thumb stroked across his cheek in a show of tenderness. “It doesn’t mean someone can’t look at you and be stunned at the sight of you or speak to you and be charmed in an instant. It doesn’t mean someone can’t fall in love with each wonderful inch of you.”

“Charmer,” Arthur murmured quietly, unable to stop himself from smiling, his entire demeanour warming in pleased embarrassment despite his continued weariness. He warmed even more when Sir Tor ducked in to press a kiss against his cheek. “I can’t believe you haven’t been snatched up yet.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be snatched up.” Sir Tor smiled in return. He continued to press tender kisses all over his face and did so with increasing vigour until Arthur started squirming, laughing, struggling to wriggle away, but never hard enough to escape the continuous show of affection. Strong arms remained tight around him. Still laughing, Arthur soon found himself with his back pressing back against Sir Tor, who was nuzzling against his hair and neck now. His warm breath tickled his vulnerable skin just so. “Maybe I want someone specific to snatch me up and no one else will do. Or maybe no one is interested in snatching me up. Who knows? As long as you’re happy, and Merlin can find happiness again one day, then I’m glad to just go on living as usual. Just the thought of living is enough to keep me going, you know? Getting to see the people I love smile and laugh and just living their lives in peace. I don’t need to be snatched up.”

Arthur might have made a reply, but for the familiar voice saying, “I come bearing another gift from Her Majesty, Your Highness.”

“Enter,” Arthur called out firmly, forcing himself to step away, his spine straightening and his shoulders squaring. He raised his chin as the clerk stepped through burdened with a picnic basket and paused at the sight of his scattered armour, but the clerk hastened to continue when Arthur arched an expectant eyebrow. His private matters were none of his business. The clerk set the basket down on the table and stepped away, bowing, his movements fluid and graceful as Arthur stepped forward to inspect the contents. His stomach released an eager grumble at the sight of breakfast – more than enough for two people. Arthur looked at the clerk and offered a warm smile. “Please extend our gratitude to Her Majesty, and our warm compliments to the kitchen staff. All of this looks delicious.”

A moment or two of requisite pleasantries passed before Arthur was once more alone with Sir Tor, the pair sharing a smile as the latter glanced into the picnic basket. His stomach grumbled loudly, even more so than his own had. Chuckling warmly, Arthur pushed him down into the nearest chair and advised him to get started while Arthur cleaned up the mess he’d made. He felt much improved in the wake of his emotional upheaval despite the weariness lingering, but he knew some of that arose from not having eaten yet that morning, so it wasn’t a surprise when he turned ravenous as soon as he sat down opposite Sir Tor.

“I need to talk to you about something,” Arthur announced as he covered his plate with various pieces of fruit and cooked meats and a few slices of cheese. He also retrieved two pies and several slices of fresh bread for himself. A hum of appreciation escaped him at the immediate wave of warmth that filtered through his sensitive skin. Arthur slathered the warm bread in butter and honey, almost moaning at the taste he’d missed. His eyes fluttered closed in pleasure. He didn’t speak again until he’d finished eating bread slathered in honey, suckling at his fingers and moaning quietly, his face bright with delight. His eyes snapped open when he was done to see Sir Tor staring, a grape frozen on its short trek to his mouth. His cheeks were tinged with pink. Arthur swallowed thickly, a bubble of mortified laughter escaping, but it didn’t stop him from licking even the last residue from his lips. Sir Tor dropped his gaze to follow the movement and then looked away, clearing his throat even as he blushed harder.

His gaze darted back a moment later.

“Is it about how much you like honey?”

“I don’t like honey,” Arthur answered immediately, his whole demeanour warming despite his lingering embarrassment. “I love honey; I’d be happy, if I could smother all the things I love in it before licking it off and never be questioned about it.”

“You love Merlin.”

“I do.”

“I’m going to have that image stuck in here all day,” announced Sir Tor, tapping his finger against his temple. An amused smile spread across his flushed face. Arthur laughed in embarrassment and threw a grape at him. He laughed harder when Sir Tor shifted his head and caught the grape with his mouth in one fluid move. Sir Tor hummed in immediate appreciation as he chewed and then swallowed. “Thank you. I love grapes.”

“I’m not sure I even want to know what you’d like to do with grapes.” Arthur shook his head as Sir Tor offered a mischievous wink and continued laughing, his frame shaking right down to his core with it. He popped a grape into his own mouth and offered a bright smile to Sir Tor, who smiled right back at once. He focused his attention on his breakfast for a few minutes before looking at him again. “What else _do_ you like?”

“Blindfolds.”

“I meant: what else do you like to _eat_?”

“People wearing blindfolds.”

Arthur almost choked on a grape as his friend smiled innocently, though his eyes sparkled with even more mischievous amusement. He was almost certain Sir Tor would be the death of him before the second round of the tournament could even start.   


	52. Chapter Fifty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, Folks. 
> 
> Warning: This chapter contains mentions of recreational/historial uses of narcotics, and dubious consent as a result.
> 
>  
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think! I love hearing all your thoughts.

Arthur defeated his opponent in the second round and then defeated his next opponent two mornings later, and a burst of elated triumph coursed through him as the crowds cheered. He acknowledged them with a short bow and then offered a deeper one to the Queen of Wessex before striding from the ring, unable to stop grinning even as he panted and sweated in the growing summer heat. Ninianne was beaming when he reached her and the pair hastened back to his tent for some privacy, Arthur wrenching off his barbute and coif in the process. He was boiling; this morning was hotter than the others he’d experienced since the tournament started and Arthur was convinced he’d start melting soon. He wasn’t sure how the other warriors could manage the heat so well. He supposed it just came down to experience and determination – like all worthwhile things in life. Forcing his overworked mind to clear, Arthur doused his head with frigid water and gasped at the immediate shock before pushing his wet hair out of his face with a hand shaking from the adrenaline still coursing through him.

Frostbitten water felt so good in the overwhelming heat blanketing Dorchester. A shiver ran through him as several droplets disappeared beneath his hauberk and gambeson to slide down the scorching curve of his back.

Arthur knew a cold bath would be the perfect thing to end his perfect morning, but he mentioned none of this to Ninianne as she hurried through unbuckling and removing his armour and chainmail. He’d spent some time polishing his armour to redeem himself after his burst of uncontrollable rage. He’d even muttered an apology, knowing it wasn’t right to mistreat gifts from those he cared about. His aunt had commissioned his armour; there were protective runes and runes for good fortune etched into the plates in numerous places and the decorative detail surrounding them was stunning. He knew his armour wouldn’t have been out of place upon a King. It was all the more reason to treat his armour with adoration and respect. Mistreated armour wouldn’t protect him in the ring, nor in a skirmish or a true battle for his life.

Not that he expected to be in one of those in the near future.

Arthur hoped his childhood tormentor would be knocked out of the tournament before he had to deal with him. Jeffrey, however, was proving himself to be a far better swordsman than a human being, and Arthur knew he might have to face him at some point in the tournament. Just the thought of facing him in the ring made his stomach knot with fear and his frame tighten with stress. He didn’t want to face Jeffrey; Arthur knew the man would recognise him as soon as the pair clashed together, pushing against each other, their faces close enough to steal a kiss. His childhood tormentor would recognise him and the tournament would cease being friendly; it would become a fight to the death between one moment and the next. He knew it would be gruelling. It would be a challenge the likes of which he hadn’t faced since he’d tried his basic skills against those vicious bandits and he’d slipped into that haze – the one that turned his limbs into an extension of his will to survive.

Facing his childhood tormentor again would make it even worse.

His chest still heaving, Arthur dismissed his squire once he’d been freed from his armour and weapons and managed a smile as Ninianne darted away, eager to return to the stands and watch the rest of the matches scheduled for that morning. Arthur stripped himself of the rest of his clothes quickly, but carefully, not wanting to overwork his exhausted muscles. He released an appreciative groan when phantom thumbs started digging into the knot of tension forming between his shoulder blades. He was even quicker to climb into the bathtub waiting and almost choked on a gasp at the burst of cold enveloping his calves. His knees buckled. Magic enveloped him and supported him on his way, keeping him steady, helping his head find the cloth resting against the rim. Arthur moaned quietly, submerging himself in the frigid water, his nipples stiff and aching from the cold even as his privates did their best to retreat inside him. Another moan escaped him when the water started heating, just as his teeth started chattering from the cold. His frame melted even further, relaxing, the increasing heat so good in the wake of that shock. He whined as the water shifting around him when he moved to make himself more comfortable caressed his aching nipples and sent spikes of pleasure shooting through him.

“I can’t wait until this tournament is over,” Arthur moaned some minutes later, his thighs spread as much as possible and his hand moving, stroking loose and slow, his deliberate movements teasing his manhood until he had to bite his lip. His breath caught as the fingers of his other hand twisted and tugged and rubbed an aching nipple until Arthur arched in the water, managing to whisper, “I want it slow and deep when you take me.”

Magic pulsed against his sternum.

His breath hitching, Arthur shifted in the water and then hooked his legs over the rim on either side of the bathtub. The hand not teasing his manhood went wandering, sliding down over flushed skin and stretch marks. The calluses on his hand dragged against the sensitive skin of his thigh before sliding further. He pressed and rubbed against that stretch of skin behind his jewels and a shiver raced through his body, his head pressing back against the cloth preventing him from hurting his neck. Arthur cursed in pleasure and then slid his fingers down further, grunting, feeling the stretch as his frame curved to allow the movement. But he knew the stretch was worth it when another wave of pleasure washed through him at the blunt press of his fingers against his taint.

He’d never done this part himself before.

He hadn’t been brave enough.

Arthur, however, now elated after his victory, and almost desperate to indulge in the pursuit of ecstasy, was brave enough to make the attempt at least. He hadn’t climaxed in more than a week and he could feel the need simmering, building, driving him to pleasure himself. He’d grown so accustomed to experiencing such pleasure each night that being without that phantom touch for so long felt strange and somewhat disorienting, apart from the one night he’d spent sleeping beside Sir Tor. His friend had distracted him from the usual discomfort of being alone in the evening, untouched and debating whether he’d eat his words and ask the magic to take him to bed.

He wasn’t going to eat his words.

But he’d indulge while he had the chance to do so. Arthur wouldn’t be fighting in the morning; he knew he’d have a chance to recover before having to face his next opponent in the ring. Honestly, that was one of the perks of hosting a tournament so large and he intended to keep up the tradition in future.

Touching his taint was awkward and clumsy. Arthur muttered to himself even as his fingers continued to rub – the jolts of pleasure shooting through him made his left leg twitch where it hung suspended over the rim. He bit back a moan when he started pressing, the blunt force of his finger both foreign and familiar, his breath hitching over and over as he worked one finger inside himself and then another.

It was a terrible angle.

His muscles ached from the stretch and his wrist started protesting each movement and still Arthur couldn’t help rutting, his hips twitching, biting his lip even harder. He could feel himself flushing, and not just because of the hand wrapped around his manhood or the water heating his skin.

His throat clamped down around a whimper.

If he could just....

If he could _just_....

A frustrated noise tore out of his throat as he searched for that thing; that spot that made him melt into a damn puddle of desire whenever Merlin or his magic had fingers or their exquisite length buried inside him. Arthur wanted to find that spot. He needed to find it: that spot made lovemaking feel so good and he knew it would extend to this moment in the water, this moment of pleasure and indulgence. His lip stung under his teeth and the sharp tang of copper flooded his mouth as Arthur kept pumping those fingers in and out of his arse while his legs twitched and that familiar heat continued to build inside him.

Maybe he didn’t need to find that spot within him to feel good.

He’d just given up on finding that spot when the magic wrapped around his hand and gave him a guiding nudge. A hoarse moan escaped him as lightning arced through his body, his muscles straining, but he kept touching that exquisite spot over and over with each forceful push of his hand.

His other hand quickened around his manhood.

Reaching his climax was as sudden as ever, his frame tensing and releasing, one leg jerking hard and then smacking against the rim of the bathtub. Dimly, Arthur was aware that he’d feel that bruise later, but he couldn’t care less as his hand wrung stripe after stripe of seed from his length. His frame went limp. Arthur panted hard and couldn’t even muster a scrap of embarrassment as he realised how debauched he’d have looked had someone come into the tent in the wake of his pleasure. A minute or two passed before he could muster the wherewithal to bring his legs back into the water, his thighs and hips aching from the strain. His wrist wasn’t pleased with him in the least. He couldn’t muster enough piece of mind to care. He gave the magic a nudge with his thoughts and hummed in appreciation as phantom hands found the nearest cloth and soap.

The magic helped him dress later, cradling him close and providing support when Arthur started yawning, his frame limp with the urge to sleep. His bath had been relaxing for more reasons than one. A dazed smile curled his mouth as Arthur looked down at the shimmering tendrils of magic winding around him. He hummed in contentment when one of them brushed against his jaw and then his mouth: his skin tingled as the cut he’d made with his teeth healed over, the tenderness fading. He hummed again when phantom lips pressed a kiss against the corner of his mouth and he couldn’t help turning, leaning, sighing in contentment as he let himself indulge in a kiss for the first time in over a week. His eyes drifted closed in pleasure.

“I think I deserved a kiss today,” Arthur murmured eventually, his lips tingling from the exquisite press and slide of magic. His mouth curled around another dazed smile as the magic pressed a tender kiss to the top of his nose. “I did better than even Morgana thought I would. Did I do better than you thought I would?”

Magic flicked his nose.

Grinning, Arthur couldn’t help but lean closer, asking, “You think I’m amazing, don’t you? You love watching me be aggressive and daring, getting hot under chainmail and armour, just so you can see me naked later. You love it when I’m naked. You’d prefer to have me naked all the time. If you could have your way, I’d be naked and tied to the bed all the time so you could have me whenever you wanted. Just admit it!”

Phantom fingers pinched his backside.

Chuckling, Arthur darted away, but didn’t get far before magic enveloped him and rooted him to the spot. Phantom fingers wormed under his clothes and went after his vulnerable places. He choked on a burst of laughter and tried to squirm away, but couldn’t move unless the magic allowed him to. Arthur stretched out an arm and strained to reach the nearest chair, as if he could fend off those unseen fingers with such an inconsequential thing, but he soon gave up as his knees buckled. The magic went down to the ground with him and Arthur went sprawling, squirming, his face flushing red and his mouth sucking in gasping breaths whenever he wasn’t laughing too hard. He wasn’t released until Arthur thought his lungs might explode from it.

Arthur panted hard against the grass and continued sprawling, his blood calming down over time as the magic sprawled across his back like a lover. Two phantom arms folded across the span of his shoulders and familiar phantom hips pressed snug against his backside. Arthur hummed in contentment and mellowed further, his frame relaxing, almost melting against the grass. He moved his arms to make himself more comfortable and smiled when the magic moved those phantom arms to press along them. Phantom fingers tangled with his. He turned his head and sighed when a phantom face nuzzled at his hair. One moment stretched into another and then a question started niggling, worming around in his head until it reached the forefront of his mind. Arthur squirmed beneath the warm and adoring sprawl of magic and did his best to ignore the question niggling at him.

He knew it was stupid.

It wasn’t a question worth asking, not when he knew it was ridiculous.

Arthur squirmed again a moment later, the question drifting down and starting to sour in his stomach. His shoulders tensed until a knot of pain began forming between his shoulder blades. He focused on drawing in one breath after another, on counting in his head as the magic continued to release bursts of warmth against him. His phantom lover, however, soon grew tired of the tension and almost seemed to huff in irritation before giving him a questioning poke. Arthur turned his face away, his face flushing, and remained silent. He wasn’t going to ask the question. He just wanted to relax with his phantom lover, and spend the afternoon peaceful and happy, languorous after his triumph in the ring and his moment of indulgence in the bath. He didn’t want to think about the doubts and fears that made him feel so stupid when he wasn’t distracting himself. He didn’t want his insecurities to ruin another moment with those he cared about.

The magic poked at him again.

He glanced over his shoulder and his throat constricted as a fraction of the magic seemed to tilt in confusion as the rest continued to sprawl across his back in an adoring manner. Arthur looked down at the grass and drew in one long breath before asking, his voice a hesitant murmur, “What _do_ you love about me? It isn’t _just_ about...having me naked all the time...is it?”

His stomach knotted in fear when the magic abandoned him without warning, but he needn’t have fretted: the magic returned less than a moment with later with a stack of parchment and ink and a quill. His heart clenching, Arthur watched as a tendril of magic dipped the quill into the ink before writing across the parchment in an inexperienced scrawl:

_We love your dimples._

“Dimples?” Arthur blinked in surprise and stared down at the words staring right back at him. He swallowed as the magic sprawling across his back warmed and offered a gentle pulse of comfort. “I don’t have dimples.”

_You have dimples on your back...between your hips. We love looking at them and thinking about them. We love kissing them. We wish you had dimples on your backside and on your face. We wish you had them all over the place. We’d love and kiss all the dimples all the time. We can’t get enough._

His face heating, Arthur couldn’t help but murmur, “What else?”

_We love the scars on your back. We love how brave you are. We want all the people to see you how we see you: brave and noble and kind and warm and loving, even though you can be a fool. But you’re our fool. We love seeing your face brighten when you’re happy, and seeing how quick you are to smile and grin and laugh like the world is amazing, and you can’t get enough. We love the sound of your laugh: the dark and wicked little chuckles when you’re flirting; the awkward and embarrassed chuckles when someone else is doing the flirting; the bursts of laughter that ripple down your frame and make your head fall back in joy, face flushed and eyes squeezing shut as your mouth opens around each delightful bray._

“I don’t bray,” Arthur muttered indignantly, his face flushing an even deeper red. But he couldn’t stop watching as the quill dipped again and continued writing, extolling his various – and disputed – virtues.

_We love your indignation. We love the clench of your jaw and the gleam in your eye and the flash of colour in your cheeks. We love fuelling your indignation until it overrides your doubt and fear and lack of esteem and you become the confident man we know you can be. We love – and hate – how your whole face softens when you’re sad. You’re so beautiful when you’re sad that sometimes we want to cry; sometimes we want to gather you up and take you away, and protect you from all the things making you sad. But we can’t. Your sadness follows you around like a shadow and we don’t know what to do. We love the moments when you find a smile despite how miserable you’re feeling, when you manage that little huff of breath that tries to be a laugh when all you want to do is curl up and weep._

_We love how your hair glows in the sunshine and how your skin does in the moonlight. We love how odd it seems – that you should be so devastating when bathed in both. We love how your heart stutters in your chest when you’re startled and when you’re a little bit in love with something or someone. Your heart stuttered so often whenever you encountered us. You didn’t notice the stuttering, not in the beginning, but we noticed. We heard you in the bushes when you were little and you saw us with our hounds. We wanted to go investigating, to let our soul respond to the bond pulling, tugging, and whispering for us to find you._

_But we couldn’t._

_It wasn’t time._

_You were too little to understand the bond between us. We were too little to protect you. We had to strengthen and hone our skills first. We had to grow up. We had to make sure we could protect you._

Arthur stared at the parchment until his vision started blurring, and he blinked to clear it. One tear slipped free of his lashes and then another. His throat burning, Arthur continued to read as the words came faster and faster, as though the magic needed him to understand something important.

_We heard your soul weeping so often when you were growing up and we wanted to scream. We wanted to scream and rage and tear through the world until nothing remained but you. We wanted to keep you safe._

“Does Merlin know about the bond?” Arthur swallowed thickly, the hoarseness of his voice humiliating him somewhat. His heart hammered in his chest. He glanced over his shoulder at the warm and adoring magic sprawling across his back. “Did he know about it when he hired me? Did he know about it when he...when he realised he loved me? Or did he love me before we met? Is the bond the reason he loves me in the first place? Did he have no choice in the matter?”

_Our mortal vessel knows nothing, but that you are the Once and Future King and that he is us. He knows nothing of the bond but what he experienced when we joined with you in that bed. He knows what you have with us is unique. No one else on earth has such a profound bond. Our mortal vessel might have been drawn to you initially, but he chose to remain close to you of his own free will. We made no effort to push him in your direction._

_He chose you like we chose you all those years ago._

_We remember choosing you. We remember that moment as though it were yesterday; we remember the moment you pushed that defenceless child behind you and ordered them to run before facing that irate bear alone. Our heart stopped in an instant. You seemed so small and powerless against such a beast and still you wounded her enough to drive her away, and we were in awe. You held your ground against that bear and did so without the powers we possessed. We watched you struggle to your feet and manage a few stumbling steps before toppling, countless gashes gaping across your flesh and gushing, staining the hide you wore a deep red._

_You pushed against the ground with a feeble moan and then went still._

_You would have died that day, if we hadn’t stepped out of the shadows and intervened. We took you back to the cave we’d been exploring earlier and we cleansed and bound your wounds in the darkness. We eased your fever and we were there when you woke from your delirium. You blinked up at us and we were lost in an instant._

_You thought we were a God. We aren’t a God. Gods rise and fall with the faith of mankind. We are the sea and the sky; we are the stars. We are the breath in your lungs and the blood in your veins. We are Emrys._

“What happened then?” Arthur shuffled closer, his heart thumping in his chest. His vision blurred again and Arthur blinked it clear in order to focus on the words sprawling across the parchment. “What happened between us? Was this how I became the Once and Future King?”

_We followed you back to your settlement once you’d regained your strength. We were eager to see your home and you were shy, quiet and fumbling, your face flushing whenever you glanced in our direction and found us admiring you. That flush was the most endearing thing we’d witnessed since visiting your world and we wanted you. We wanted to make you flush all over. Your people were in awe when we arrived and believed you’d been chosen for some higher purpose. A feast was held in your honour and we were a celebrated guest. We inhaled smoke from herbs that made our blood sing and our heart full and you seemed twice as beautiful as ever when we saw you dancing, bathed in flames and moonlight as you succumbed to laughter, your head tossed back in the purest ecstasy._

_We couldn’t find the strength to leave in the morning, not after we woke beside you and remembered the trust and faithful fervour in your eyes as you welcomed us between your thighs without question. Not after we remembered the soft sounds of your pleasure and the breathless awe that brightened your eyes as the fires blazed anew around our union as we peaked inside you. We watched you sleep that morning, watched the peaceful expression fade into happiness when we reached out and carded our hand through your hair, and grew mesmerised when you shuffled closer in your sleep. We watched you wind your arms around us and hide your face against our chest as the sun appeared over the trees and her glow sprawled across the earth. We heard the contented hum that escaped you when we wound an arm around you in return. You were so beautiful...the most beautiful thing we’d seen in so long, and we couldn’t bear the thought of walking away, of leaving and never seeing you so vibrant and alive again._

_We chose to remain with you._

“I thought it was destiny,” Arthur whispered hesitantly, confusion rippling through him as he read the words sprawling across the parchment in front of him. His brow furrowed with that confusion. A phantom hand carded through his hair, warm fingers tangling, familiar calluses scraping against his scalp. Arthur swallowed thickly, ignoring the urge to shiver and sigh in pleasure. He ignored the urge to push back against the phantom hips pressing against his backside. “I thought Fate wanted the pair of us together, working together, working to build that bright future for the betterment of Albion.”

_Fate is borne of choice._

_Our choices matter; such decisions are the foundation upon which the future is developed. You chose to give that defenceless child a chance to run and save themselves and inspired us to act in the process. We chose to intervene on your behalf. You chose to welcome us into your settlement. Your people chose to elevate you above them. We chose to remain with you and protect you and guide you on the path forged when you welcomed us into your life. Your fate wasn’t something we designed: it occurred naturally, as a result of the choices you and the people around you made. Your people believed you were chosen and so you became so._

_We’re sorry; we know you must blame us._

“I don’t blame you.” Arthur spoke harshly, his mouth twisting, his veins flooding with the purest anger at the insinuation. He made to turn over and the magic allowed him to do so. He glared at the golden miasma sprawling over him. “Don’t you ever think that – not even for a moment. Ansgar explained to me that magic hadn’t existed in this world until you came along; Hecate wouldn’t even exist without your interference. Some of the people I love would be powerless. I wouldn’t be living and breathing now without you. What part of that would make me blame you?”

He heard the scratch of a quill against parchment and then the magic held the parchment over his face. Arthur read slowly, carefully, his brow still furrowed.

_You never wanted to be in this position. You just wanted to care for the people depending on you – the people in your settlement and your settlement only, not the whole of Albion. But one thing led to another and more people were swept under your banner; most of them believed as you and your people had believed: that we were a God. The explanations we gave to refute their claims seemed to inflame their faith even more. You were put in this position because of us and we tried to make it better, but it just made matters worse. We should have sent the bear running, and then walked away, leaving you and the child unharmed before you could be swept up in the tides of fate._

_It was our fault._

The parchment dropped out of sight and Arthur looked at his phantom lover, his expression softening, murmuring, “What happened wasn’t just because of you. We all made choices that led to us being in this position. You tried to help. No one could ask much more of you.”

Arthur turned over when he heard the quill scratching again and continued reading.

_You did. You blamed us then. You never said as much...but we weren’t stupid. You were fine in the beginning, but your attitude changed as you grew older and became responsible for more and more lives. You lost the softness that made you seem so lively, so happy, and you grew hard and sharp at the edges. You grew tired. You resented us._

“I don’t know why,” Arthur answered quietly, leaning into the gentle and miserable nuzzle against the side of his face. His eyes drifted closed. He longed to wrap his arms around Merlin and Emrys and provide them some comfort. His voice grew even softer as he turned over once more and faced his phantom lover, parting his thighs in welcome. Unseen hips settled between them and a phantom hand cradled his face with a tenderness that made his lip tremble. His eyes fluttered back open and he gazed up at the golden miasma sprawling over him. “You didn’t mean for this to happen. You stumbled upon me when I was in trouble and you were moved to action. I’d expect no less from those serving under me now; our job is to intercede when trouble is brewing, so we can limit the amount of casualties in our pursuit of peace. Our job is to serve and protect the people depending on us and you did no different in that situation. You did the right thing, but I do have an important question to ask you.”

The magic nuzzled against his face and then pulsed in encouragement.

“Did we all inhale that narcotic before you took me to bed that first time or was it just you? If it was the latter, then I want to go back and punch me. That just isn’t on.” Arthur offered a stern stare as the magic pulled away, rippling as though it were laughing, but he remained silent as the quill scratched against the parchment again. It floated above him a moment later, allowing him to read the addition. He felt somewhat mollified. Honestly, he believed all manner of influential substances should be left at the door when engaging in such pleasurable activities...but at least Emrys hadn’t been alone in inhaling that narcotic smoke: the whole settlement – apart from the children sent to bed after the feast – had been under its influence that night. “Better,” Arthur continued eventually, frowning up at his phantom lover, “but still not wonderful. How often did we take that stuff before we’d fall into bed? I hope it wasn’t that often. It doesn’t seem like the wisest thing to do. One of us could have overdosed from such activities!”

The magic raised an answer a few moments later:

_We never inhaled those herbs again before making love. We wouldn’t consider it falling into bed: we took you against a mound of leaves the first time and our magic kept you warm through the night. There were no beds – not like what we have now – but we made the most of what we had. We’d disappear into your tent once the sun set on evenings following that first time and we’d make love against a mound of furs. You loved sleeping against the furs: your sensitive skin basked in their softness and sometimes you’d arrange yourself upon them before we’d enter, and pretend to be sleeping, hoping to entice us into having our wicked way, but we knew you were awake each time. We could feel your heart pounding with familiar nerves before we’d blanket you and your eyes would flutter open to reveal those blue depths that captivated us so much. You’d smile up at us as though you couldn’t imagine being with someone better; we’d kiss you senseless._

“I do love kissing,” Arthur admitted quietly, his mouth curling around a growing smile as he imagined Merlin doing what the magic had described. His eyes grew heavy, imagining the fluttering in his stomach and the daze settling over him as Merlin continued to kiss him senseless. He imagined those familiar hands caressing his bare skin and the shiver such a touch would induce. Arthur knew he’d start to get desperate as the kissing continued and the heat started building, flushing through his body, earning the softest noises of encouragement and the twitching of hips. He imagined his hands sinking into silken hair and drawing Merlin ever closer, eager and clinging, adoring him. Swallowing, Arthur looked up at his phantom lover, whispering, “Kiss me.”

He didn’t need to ask twice.


	53. Chapter Fifty-Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, folks.
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think! I look forward to hearing your thoughts.

A lead weight settled within the pit of his stomach as Arthur stared up at the listing, his panicked breath coming short and sharp as he stared at the miniature shield representing Camelot and Mercia. It bore the name of his childhood tormentor in bold lettering to differentiate from the one representing Sir Tor. A thick sweat broke out on his skin and chilled him to the bone. His young squire gripped his hand hard and started pulling, urging him away, and Arthur went without thinking, turning and following her like someone drugged. He stumbled more than once before managing to regain his footing and then Arthur matched her pace. His heart hammered in his chest as he and Ninianne hastened to find Morgana and her maidservant in the stands. Two pairs of vibrant green eyes turned towards him as Freya inhaled sharply, her teeth elongating and sharpening, and her jaw morphing, before she shook her head and the runes on her collar started flaring.

“I can smell your distress from here.” Freya wrinkled her nose at him as her partial transformation abated and rose from the bench as the pair came nearer. A familiar discomfort tightened her frame as her runes continued to glow around her neck. “What happened?”

“I’m scheduled to fight him this morning!”

“Are you serious?” Morgana drained of colour behind her, her nostrils flaring, her eyes flickering with gold as her magic crackled around her in reaction to her sudden surge of powerful emotion. She rose from the bench as well and reached for Arthur, who let himself be drawn closer, doing his best to hide the tremble coursing through him while his men seated in the row behind them looked elsewhere. Morgana urged him to sit down beside her and Freya moved away, making room for him and Ninianne immediately, her eyes flickering between the green of the beast within and her usual brown as she scented the air around her. His sister looked at him as his heart continued to slam against his ribs. She captured his hand as soon as he dropped his shield and squeezed as Ninianne squeezed the other in a warm show of comfort. “Arthur, I have complete faith in your abilities. I know you can take him down.”

“He’ll recognise me –”

“I know,” Morgana answered quietly, raising her other hand to forestall the distressed protests that rose in his throat. Arthur fell silent at once. Her expression sharpened with so much raw emotion that Arthur could do nothing but swallow, aware that there was nothing his sister wouldn’t do to protect him from harm. Morgana squeezed his hand even harder and Arthur didn’t have the heart to let her know that her grip hurt. “I know he’ll recognise you. I know that. I’ve seen how up close and personal that brute got with you in the past. But I’ve also seen how courageous and determined you are and I know you can take him down. Obviously, I can’t claim it’ll be a simple victory, but you’re a fighter and you’re going to walk out of that ring with your head held high. You’ve spent so long getting back up. Don’t let him push you down before you even step into the ring.”

“You’re right.” Arthur drew in a shaking breath and held it in his chest for a moment before releasing it in a slow stream. He did the same with his next breath and the next until some semblance of calm filtered through his veins. He squeezed her hand in return. His voice sharpened with growing confidence as the magic pulsed against his sternum and let him feel the warm encouragement winding down through him to kiss the spot where their souls joined. “You’re right: I can do this. I can beat him. If I could face the King when I was younger, and far weaker, then I can face this unimaginable bastard now. I can do this.”

“I know you can.” Morgana relinquished his hand and turned away, her attention focusing upon the crowd gathering first and then upon the ring below them. Her expression turned sharp and calculating. “When do you face him?”

“I’m fighting in the third match of the morning,” Arthur answered quietly, his heart jumping into his throat. He pushed it back down and frowned. “You have until then to prepare yourselves. He’ll do his best to unmask me as soon as he recognises me and we need to prevent the others from Camelot and Mercia from running and sending word that I’m still alive. Currently, Bayard believes I’m dead and he has no reason to look for me. He’ll have reason as soon as word that I’m alive reaches him and he’ll know where I sought refuge at once. He’ll come after us. Sir Kay,” Arthur continued just as quietly, addressing the armed escort sitting in the row behind him without turning, “I want you to circle the arena and get as close to their representatives as possible without being seen. You’ll know when to act. I don’t want the squires harmed – not unless you have to. We all know the struggle of choosing between protecting loved ones and following our conscience: I can’t be certain those squires haven’t been put in a difficult position after all the things that happened in Camelot since we escaped from the citadel. Sir Lancelot...I need you to get as close to the Queen as possible and warn her that trouble might arise while I’m competing today; she might need to have a practitioner skilled in erasing and altering certain memories on hand where representatives from Camelot and Mercia and their various allies are concerned. Let her know that I’ve spoken with Nemeth already; those men won’t spread word of me being here after our prior discussion.”

His men made no blatant acknowledgement of his quiet commands. Neither of them even acknowledged his rank in open view. A warm burst of pride pulsed beneath his breast as one of them mentioned forgetting his purse before rising, his companion insisting that he’d escort him back to the tavern less than a moment later, and the pair disappeared from the stands.

Arthur made no effort to watch his men leave the vicinity, choosing instead to trust that both of them would remain as unobtrusive as possible while accomplishing their tasks on his behalf. He trusted all the men and women that served beneath him to do their utmost for him and his aunt and the realm their forces were sworn to serve and protect. He and the Queen of Cornwall would do the same for them in return. As he’d learned from his countless sessions with Ansgar: how could those beneath him trust him to care for their wellbeing when he cared nothing for them in return? His future as the High King of Albion would have to arise from trust and cooperation and a burning sense of honour and justice.

He would follow the same advice when succeeding the Queen of Wessex.

Morgana remained silent as the men slipped away, but Arthur could almost hear her mind working, turning thoughts and ideas over in her head. Several moments passed before she broke the silence growing between herself and Arthur, her voice quiet and resolute as the words dropped from her lips like stones.

“Arthur, you know what you have to do when you face him.”

“I’m not a murderer,” Arthur snapped immediately, his veins pulsing with anger even as a surge of nausea twisted his stomach. His voice remained quiet despite the anger pulsing through him. He wouldn’t draw attention to their group through raising his voice. He refused to look at his sister even when Morgana touched his arm. His hand curled into a fist against his thigh. He shrugged free of her touch and reached for his shield to distract himself from the nausea churning in his stomach anew. He thumbed at the familiar edge of his shield. “I’m not a monster. I don’t want to be the person Bayard thinks I am. I don’t want to go out planning to murder someone just because he and I don’t get along. If something happens in the ring, it’ll be because that bastard left me no room to manoeuvre around him and find another solution to this problem. Not because I set out to kill him from the beginning.”

Morgana offered no answer, but he could feel the weight of her stare.

Arthur continued to avoid looking at Morgana. He chose to raise his arm in welcome instead and wasn’t surprised when his squire came immediately, wrapping her arms around him and pressing her face against his pristine surcoat. Her warmth and soft affection was a welcome and soothing balm in the wake of that explosion of anger and nausea. Arthur squeezed his young squire closer, taking the comfort Ninianne offered without speaking a word. He looked down at her and admired the intricate braid she’d worked into her hair earlier that morning, assuming she’d used magic to get a result so flawless. His mouth curled around a small smile. Arthur was never more proud of Ninianne than when she controlled her magic with such practiced and familiar ease. It was proof that she was adapting, growing more accustomed to her power, and embracing it in order to reach her full potential as a witch. Arthur knew children often had trouble controlling their magic because it was so raw and reactive to their emotional state. It was wonderful to see Ninianne excelling, taking control of her power, and welcoming it with her whole being. He looked forward to seeing her reach the pinnacle of her mastery; she might never be on par with her elder brother, but Arthur was sure Ninianne could give Morgana a run for her money, given enough time and training.

Ninianne continued to snuggle against his chest as Arthur watched the warriors fighting, taking important notes in silence. Her presence helped him remain calm as the minutes trickled away, bringing his own match nearer and nearer, but Arthur did his best not to the think about the impending explosion of familiar aggression waiting for him. He didn’t think about his childhood tormentor and the likelihood of being revealed during the match. He didn’t think about the malice he’d see directed at him.

Arthur was going to stride into that ring with his shoulders squared and his chin up and he was going to win. He was going to use his determination to fuel his triumph in the arena. He was determined to win. He’d never let his childhood tormentor bring trouble to Cornwall or Wessex because of their ongoing feud. Nor would he let Bayard harm another soul as a result of his fight against Jeffrey, who’d take suck cruel glee from informing the King that Arthur continued living even now. It still amazed Arthur that Deorwynn was related to that cruel bastard.

It made him wonder who’d been lost to fuel such rage.

Not that he believed pain fuelled all such acts.

He was a firm believer that pure and simple sadism fuelled most of those horrendous actions. Jeffrey and the King weren’t so different: both of them seemed to get a sick sense of satisfaction whenever Arthur was at their mercy, weak with terror and vulnerable and defenceless. Both of them took perverse pleasure from seeing him battered and bruised and broken at their feet.

He knew Bayard would have whipped him himself had Merlin been elsewhere.

His frame tensed with discomfort at the thought.

Arthur could imagine just how much worse that flogging would have been had Bayard controlled the whip. He’d have whipped more than just his back. He’d have whipped each available inch in sight. He might have even had him turned around in order to decorate his front with lashes. His stomach started churning as he imagined himself forced to reveal his privates to the public. Arthur knew Bayard would have revelled in seeing him so agonised and ashamed in front of his adoptive family, the ones that thwarted his original plan of letting Arthur starve on the streets or succumb to exposure during the night. He’d have revelled in seeing him worn down to nothing in front of the people who’d started appreciating Arthur, grateful that he’d helped the Crown Prince protect them and their loved ones throughout the years he’d worked at the castle.

He’d have whipped him to death.

It was bad enough that his adoptive father and siblings had witnessed the whipping in the first place. Having to witness such a degrading death would have been so much worse. He was glad Merlin had been around. Though the whipping had been agony, Merlin had taken such care of him afterwards. He’d been so loving and tender when he wasn’t off battling against Morgana at the border. Honestly, Arthur wasn’t sure how his former master had managed to contain the rage of his magic after that intense whipping. It must have taken a will of iron to prevent the overwhelming force of that vast sea of magic from escaping, from obliterating the King from existence for harming Arthur, for endangering his life.

That magic grew defensive during simple arguments with Morgana after all.

Arthur could almost imagine the wild rage that would have stormed through the Crown Prince when Bayard commanded that he be taken outside and whipped in public like a common criminal. He imagined it wouldn’t be unlike the violent storms that raged against the cliffs during the first winter he’d spent in Cornwall.

His eyes drifted closed as he remembered that siren song, how the howling winds had drawn him out into that crashing and roaring violence. How the resultant mist from the waves kissed his face and hair as he’d gazed out at the monstrous waves that crashed against the cliffs below. He remembered the throb of arousal between his thighs even as his heart clenched as he’d recalled Merlin and their rough lovemaking, that violent storm of magic crashing through him as he’d spread his thighs and taken all that Merlin could give him with a hot surge of greed that still burned in his veins even now.

He’d been so wanton in that miserable excuse for a bed.

His face still warmed with a hint of shame whenever Arthur remembered how wanton and desperate he’d been on that long ago morning. How wanton and desperate he still was. Honestly, Arthur couldn’t get enough of that endless passion burning between himself and Merlin and his magic. He was a glutton for the press of a slick tongue or the press of strong fingers or the press of that thick length inside him. He was a glutton for the strong and loving arms that wrapped around him and the hands that gripped him with possessive force and the adoring lips that trailed over his sensitive skin. He was a glutton for the low grunts of exertion and the hoarse moans and the exhausted tremble of that slender frame he loved so much. He was a glutton for the heat that developed between them and the sweat that slicked their limbs as he and Merlin moved together, their bodies joined in rising ecstasy, and their hair damp with their passion.

He was greed incarnate.

His face heating, Arthur realised it wasn’t the time to be contemplating such sinful and exquisite things. He’d save it for when the tournament came to an end and the magic could take him to bed again. He and the magic would celebrate his progress in the tournament together, the pair of them joining, luxuriating in a slow and deep round of lovemaking that would make his toes curl and his head press back against the pillows. He’d let the magic bind his wrists and ankles to the bed and torment him until he was a writhing mess of ecstasy, and perhaps he’d welcome that familiar phantom length into his mouth. He missed the weight of Merlin in his mouth and he longed to feel the ache in his jaw again after so long. A shiver of desire rippled down his spine and he moistened his lips automatically, his stomach tightening with want.

Doing his best to focus on the ring, Arthur was surprised to find the first match had ended. The second was about to begin. He hadn’t thought he’d been so lost in the rising tide of his thoughts and memories. His arm tightened around Ninianne. His own scheduled match would be starting sooner than he’d thought. Sudden fear twisted his insides. His breakfast rolled in his stomach. Arthur drew in one shaking breath after another, his mind diving into the routine of counting, calming himself down with those familiar exercises his healer had taught him to use when the stress of his emotions started to overwhelm him. His stomach settled more with each moment that passed and his heartbeat steadied. His arm loosened around Ninianne and hers tightened around him instead. He looked down at his dearest squire. Ninianne looked up at him in return and smiled warmly, her jade eyes soft and loving, murmuring, “You’ll be alright. Just pretend you’re fighting for Merlin.”

“Surely, a man should be out there fighting for himself.”

“Usually, but I don’t think you value yourself enough to have that work.” Her smile saddened as Arthur swallowed thickly, pushing down the cruel whispers her words sparked into being in his head. He wouldn’t listen to those hateful voices when he was surrounded with the people he loved and who loved him in return. “I know you’re doing your best to get to that point...but things like that take so much time and patience. It doesn’t happen overnight. It won’t happen between now and the moment you step into the ring to face that brute. Arthur, you value Merlin more than the whole world. Go out there and fight for him when the time comes. Fight for him until you can fight for yourself and you’ll be able to accomplish so much. Love is one of the most powerful forces on this earth: it fuels the courage that lurks beneath our breast and floods our hearts with strength when we need it most.”

“One day, I’ll consider it a blessing to have children half as wise as you.” Arthur smiled down at her, running a warm and gloved hand over her copper hair, wondering how he’d ever been blessed to know this wise young witch. Ninianne leaned into his hand and her smile brightened immediately, her eyes sparkling. “You’ll make a wonderful aunt.”

“I wouldn’t. I’d spoil them rotten!”

“That doesn’t have to be a bad thing,” Arthur answered quietly, his expression softening even further. He cupped her youthful face. His voice warmed in increasing increments. “I never want them to feel unwanted.”

Her smile slipped a fraction at his remark and yet Ninianne said nothing, choosing instead to wrap her arms around him all over again. Her warm embrace was tighter than ever before. His heart twisted in his chest at the renewed surge of unspoken affection. His young squire pressed her face against his surcoat once again and then pulled away, her spine straightening and her narrow shoulders squaring, her gaze finding the ring below as the combatants began fighting.

Arthur stared down at the ring, his gut twisting as he realised that she knew what he’d implied without meaning to.

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Ninianne with all of the deepest and darkest insecurities plaguing him. He just knew the young witch had enough to deal with without having to reassure him as well. As both her elder and the Once and Future King, it was his job to reassure those who depended upon him. Ninianne shouldn’t have to be as wise as she was at her age. He knew that. He knew that it wasn’t fair to turn to her when he needed even the tiniest measure of comfort. It wasn’t her job to be there for him.

It was his job to be there for her.

Arthur straightened and squared his shoulders with resolve to keep his insecurities to himself in the future – both for her wellbeing and to ease his own conscience. His hand moved to grip the hilt of his blade as the match below came to an end at last and Arthur rose to his feet immediately, swallowing down the sharp surge of fear that rose in his throat like so much vomit.

Arthur slipped his shield onto his arm and made way, allowing himself a brief glance at his sister, whose growing concern was so apparent that it discomfited him even further. He ripped his attention away, focusing on the steps ahead of him. He strode down to the entrance of the arena with purpose in his step despite the growing terror still hammering in his chest and doing its best to burst out of him. His muscles tensed with it. The protective magic around Arthur eased as he stepped into the ring, the loose earth beneath his boots familiar, and was grateful for the barbute concealing a large section of his face as his childhood tormentor joined him in the ring, his large and powerful frame as threatening as ever.

His childhood tormentor would have found a more even match in Sir Percival than in Arthur, who felt as though he’d reverted to being a vulnerable and defenceless child all over again. Cold sweat broke out on his skin once more when the bastard glanced his way, his expression confident and menacing, his broad frame bedecked in the blue surcoat representing Camelot and Mercia. It was an immense challenge to prevent his own shoulders from heaving – to keep his breathing calm and even in the face of Jeffrey, who still looked like he could snap him into pieces whenever he wanted and without much effort. His grip slipped as Arthur drew the blade from its scabbard with a hiss of steel and it toppled to the ground. His face heated with mortification. He scrambled to pick his sword up without looking at Jeffrey, knowing he’d see a familiar smirk directed at him.   

Arthur looked toward the Queen of Wessex and wasn’t surprised to see her relaxed in her chair, but for the tightness around her eyes and her hands. Her wizened hands gripped the arms of her chair hard enough to alert him that she’d been informed about the danger blossoming in front of her. Arthur didn’t look around for Sir Lancelot in order to express his gratitude. He focused on his breathing instead. He focused on keeping his lungs working and preventing his throat from constricting. He forced himself to remain tall and proud despite the terror building inside him and turned to face Jeffrey, who seemed at ease with that large sword in his strong grip. Arthur swallowed a rising surge of nausea before bowing, the action stilted and uncomfortable despite his best intentions to remain civil and proper; he had some sense of etiquette after all. Nor did he plan to reveal himself sooner than he had to.

His opponent tensed with affront and offered a stilted bow in return.

Arthur swallowed thickly, knowing the bastard wouldn’t be bowing, if he knew who dwelled beneath the barbute concealing his features. Several feet stretched between him and his childhood tormentor. His hand tightened around the hilt of his blade and he moved into position as he raised his shield defensively, knowing even now that he’d be bruised and battered long before he emerged from the ring – regardless of whether he emerged victorious or not. His opponent mirrored him and the pair started circling, one dark with intent and the other tense with terrified resolve. It took some effort to make his frame loosen up as Arthur continued circling the ring, his gaze focused on Jeffrey, unwilling to look elsewhere even when he glimpsed familiar faces in his peripheral vision. He wasn’t going to take his attention from his opponent for even a moment.

Doing so would be disastrous.

Arthur flooded with even more resolve as the magic pulsed against his sternum in warm and familiar encouragement. He was going to win. It wouldn’t be easy, but he’d defeat his childhood tormentor at long last. He’d be free of him at long last. His jaw clenched and his gaze hardened. Strength flooded his limbs as he waited and watched patiently, unwilling to make the first move and hand an opening to Jeffrey, whose frustration seemed to be mounting as Arthur refused to do more than circle the ring. His mouth curled in a smirk as he realised his opponent hadn’t gone through the same intensive training regime that he had: Jeffrey would soon fold and lash out in frustration. His own movements grew more seamless and fluid as confidence pumped through his veins in the wake of his realisation. His grip grew firmer. His mind sharpened as his gaze focused upon each minuscule twitch of muscle as the pair circled each other.

He was prepared when the first blow came and danced away, his steps quick and light as he whirled behind Jeffrey, who wasn’t quick enough to avoid the hard kick to his broad backside. His opponent stumbled forward and almost fell on his cruel face before righting himself and whirling around to face Arthur, his face flushed with humiliation and rising anger, his grip tightening around the hilt of his blade. Jeffrey raised his large shield a fraction higher. Smug satisfaction curled within Arthur, though his racing heart gave a terrified stutter at the sight of that familiar anger, but he wasn’t going to let that anger defeat him. He wasn’t going to lose to that bastard. He refused to lose to him. He was going to win and he’d walk out of the arena with his head held high. He’d make his companions proud. He’d make himself damned proud of his accomplishments and then he’d celebrate with a round in the tavern because he deserved it. He deserved to celebrate his accomplishments. He deserved to indulge once in a while.

He deserved to be free of his childhood tormentor at long last.

Arthur and Jeffrey continued circling each other, the former confident and the latter furious in the wake of his embarrassment. Several long moments passed before his opponent made another swing, the blade arcing through the air, and Arthur wrenched himself away, the breadth of a hair separating the lethal tip from his throat. His heart thundered in his chest. He stumbled and almost tripped over his own feet before he could correct his balance and his opponent was quick to press his advantage. His heart tried to burst out of his chest as Jeffrey drove him back one step after another, his swings too fast to counter, but Arthur met each one with his shield and swallowed the strangled grunts that threatened to escape as repeated jolts of pain reverberated up through his arm with each powerful blow.

His arm would be black and blue in the morning.

His breath quickened as Arthur realised the perimeter wall was looming fast behind him and he did the first thing he could think of: he dived to the side and rolled before rising amid an explosion of dust. Dust marred the pristine white of his surcoat. His blade rose to point at Jeffrey, putting the lethal length between himself and his childhood tormentor, who turned to face him immediately, his smug smirk disappearing from view.

His arm throbbed and protested the stance Arthur held as he kept his shield raised and ready, its weight an immense burden on his bruised and aching arm. He tightened his grip around the hilt of his blade. He knew he’d have to toss the shield aside after defending against another blow, but Arthur hoped to avoid that prospect for as long as possible. He didn’t want to be without a shield when facing this cruel bastard in the arena because it would force him to clash steel against steel and reveal himself in the process. He swallowed thickly, forcing a pool of saliva down his throat. His skin heated beneath his hauberk and armour. Beads of sweat formed beneath his barbute and Arthur could feel one of them sliding down over his nose as he continued moving, putting distance between himself and the perimeter wall.

Arthur refused to be cornered like an animal and forced to submit. He refused to submit to that bastard again. He’d never submit to another sadist for as long as he reigned over the united realms of Albion. His mouth twisted around a snarl as he lunged forward in rising anger, his steps quick and calculated and his blade quicker, but his childhood tormentor was prepared for him. His blade slammed against the shield that rose and Arthur ducked to avoid the immediate swing of sharpened steel that followed. He danced away, a bead of sweat sliding down the curve of his spine as his breath quickened even more. A second bead of sweat joined the first and then another, each one pooling at the small of his back. He could feel his tunic beginning to cling to him as the heat beneath his hauberk and armour continued to rise.

Arthur and his opponent converged and diverged over and other, neither of them managing to disarm the other, but both of them were determined to emerge victorious from the match. Neither combatant was willing to give even an inch to his opponent. It was blatant to all that watched from the stands surrounding them. His chest heaved with exertion and his lips parted around each heaving breath. His lips were dry, threatening to crack from the lack of moisture as the match raged on and on. Arthur was certain the usual five minutes had passed already, but he couldn’t glance at his companions long enough to gauge the time. A single glance could be his undoing in the ring and he wasn’t going to give that bastard the satisfaction of seeing him at his mercy, disarmed and terrified at his feet.

But his broad frame trembled with growing weariness and this match was one of the most prolonged matches he’d ever participated in since his training began almost a year earlier. Arthur knew finding an opening in the next few minutes would be essential to achieve his victory, but a grain of doubt started creeping in as each close encounter with his opponent yielded no immediate results. It was more than frustrating, but he couldn’t let that frustration interfere with his own performance in the ring, and so Arthur gritted his teeth and fought on despite the hot beads of sweat sliding down his face beneath his barbute. He shook his head in an attempt to dislodge a bead of sweat slipping down over his forehead and failed spectacularly, the bead slipping into his eye.

His vision burned and Arthur hissed immediately, wrenching himself away, doing his best to lengthen the distance between himself and Jeffrey, who drove himself forward in realisation. A sudden blow to his barbute sent his head ringing, and Arthur reeling, but he chose to sacrifice the shield in favour of keeping his sword. A hard blow slammed into his elbow and Arthur cried out in agony, a spasm running through his bruised arm.

His shield toppled to the ground.

Arthur swung his blade hard to make up for his forced sacrifice and sharpened steel sang, the fierce blow reverberating through his flesh as his opponent was forced to come close enough to almost steal a kiss.

Features he’d loathed and feared since his childhood slackened with recognition.


	54. Chapter Fifty-Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plan was to get this chapter finished and posted tomorrow, but I managed to get it done today.
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think! I look forward to hearing your thoughts.

Arthur swallowed as familiar rage and loathing twisted the features a few inches from his own. He could do nothing but keep on his feet as the bastard slammed his shield into his middle and drove him backward with frightful force. His heart lodged in his throat as his back slammed into the perimeter wall behind him. He swallowed the immediate gasp of strangled terror, his face twisting with pain as a sharp twisting motion threatened to snap his wrist. He relinquished his sword immediately, letting it tumble to the ground at his feet and giving his childhood tormentor that small victory, knowing that breaking his dominant wrist would finish him before he could formulate a solution to his dilemma. He didn’t flinch when Jeffrey abandoned his shield and reached for his barbute while he had Arthur pinned against the perimeter wall.

He ripped it free and tossed it aside.

Arthur clenched his jaw as several people in the stands gasped in shock and let his childhood tormentor have another brief moment of triumph before hooking his foot around an imbalanced leg and giving a hard yank before the bastard realised what happened. He slammed his head forward with force as Jeffrey lost his footing, grateful that the idiot hadn’t been wise enough to wear a helmet into the ring, and ignored the ringing in his head as a sickening crunch filled the air. He shoved down the flicker of memories that rose at the sound and ploughed forward with a roar, slamming into that familiar wall of muscle and sending them both toppling. Arthur allowed himself a moment of smug satisfaction as the sword went skittering across the ground. He scrambled to his feet and then away, but his dash for the blade came to a swift end as a large hand wrapped around his ankle and toppled him back to the ground.

His heart thundered as he hastened to roll over, that familiar wave of terror crashing through him as that wall of muscle crushed him against the ground a moment later, but Arthur clenched his jaw with determination as a terrified shout rose from the stands and grabbed a fistful of dust. He threw the dust at Jeffrey, quick to follow the action with a hard punch as the bastard squeezed his eyes shut to protect them from grit. Jeffrey howled in pain and anger as his fist slammed into his broken nose and more blood gushed free in a thick torrent. The bastard reeled back and gave him a brief opening, allowing Arthur to slam his knee into his middle and send him toppling, giving him a chance to free himself.

Arthur scrambled to his feet and bolted before the bastard could recover, racing to get to his own blade. He reached it just as Jeffrey reached his own. His shoulders heaved as he scooped the sword up and raised it immediately, his grip firm and confident despite the terror still pulsing through his veins. He swallowed down another wave of memories that had plagued him since his childhood and let his instincts take over, the world narrowing to the blade in his hand and the strength that flooded his heart as he let Merlin become the driving force behind his actions.

He let Merlin flood his core and then his limbs.

He’d make Jeffrey pay, and not just for all the pain Arthur had suffered at his hand. He’d avenge the man he loved. He’d avenge the suffering that bastard had put Merlin and his loved ones through.

He and his childhood tormentor clashed less than a moment later, the steel of their blades singing, the pair pushing against each other. His mouth twisted around a vicious snarl. His muscles trembled from the force of each collision and still Arthur continued fighting, adrenaline pumping through his veins and fuelling the fluid movements of his limbs. His steps were quick and light as he and Jeffrey danced together, diverging and converging over and over, neither one of them willing to concede to their opponent as the match raged on and on. He could feel the anticipation building, but the gasps and the jeering shouts and the raucous cheers from the gathered crowd seemed so distant to Arthur, whose breath came hard and heavy, whose tunic clung to him with hot sweat beneath his hauberk and armour. His hair clung to his head. His face became little more than a furnace. His joints ached with weariness and his muscles trembled more and more as each collision bruised and battered him and gnawed at his strength.

It slowed his reflexes and gave the bastard an opening.

Arthur reeled back from Jeffrey, his face pounding, the corner of his mouth torn and pulsing, pumping blood down over his chin. He swallowed the sharp tang of copper on his tongue. His face was tender and bruised and he could feel it swelling already, having become more than familiar with the sensation over the years. His one saving grace was that his childhood tormentor wasn’t unaffected. He wasn’t alone in his exhaustion. He wasn’t alone in his aches and pains as the match seemed to go on for an eternity, the morning stretching, the hot sun bearing down on them both without mercy.

“You’re losing,” sneered Jeffrey, his sword raised and pointing at Arthur, whose tiring muscles protested as he raised his own blade to defend against the next onslaught. His childhood tormentor might be weary, but he’d never been as weak as Arthur, who’d been defeated time and time again when he was younger. Jeffrey was accustomed to winning. He was accustomed to seeing Arthur lose even the last scrap of his strength and determination before driving him to the ground and pummelling the last ounce of his courage out of existence. He was accustomed to seeing Arthur break down and sob beneath him as Jeffrey left him bruised and bloodied. “You should just concede defeat now. I can’t imagine you want your people to see you sobbing beneath me.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“That isn’t how I remember it. It sounds like someone is telling tales.”

His grip tightened around the hilt of his blade as he clashed against Jeffrey, though the powerful onslaught forced him to retreat. His jaw clenched as the magic pulsed against his sternum over and over, its touch cool compared to his blazing skin and so much more than comforting, encouraging, heartening. Arthur whirled to avoid another swing, dancing around Jeffrey, snarling as he lashed out with the blade.

Jeffrey, however, was prepared this time and threw himself to the ground before scrambling to his feet and facing him again.

Arthur snarled and propelled himself toward Jeffrey, his courage and determination resurging, refusing to be crushed underfoot again. He’d never submit to this bastard. He’d never let him win. He’d never let him live with the knowledge that Arthur was the weaker man. That he was a coward quick to submit to those larger than him. His features hardened with his determination.

“You’re nothing, Jeffrey,” growled Arthur, heedless of the immediate burst of startled and mocking laughter, “and I’m going to make sure you never walk out of here a free man!”

“Think you have that much power, do you?”

“You have no idea how powerful I am.” Arthur drove the bastard back one step and then another, his face twisting with his fury, his veins storming with it. His muscles forgot their weariness as memories churned inside him like the ocean during the countless winter storms that slammed against the cliffs. “I’m not weak. I’m not a loser, or ugly, or fat. I’m not stupid. I’m not unwanted or unloved. I’m none of the things you called me! I’m none of the things you made me think I was! I’m honest and hardworking, and I have more honour in my arse than you do in your whole damned body, and I’m going to make sure the world knows it before I’m finished with you!”

“You tell him! Kick his damned arse and send him into the next century,” Ninianne shouted from somewhere behind him. Arthur didn’t dare to look over his shoulder as his blade arced through the air over and over, clashing with his childhood tormentor, whose malicious arrogance faltered as Arthur continued his onslaught with a confidence more powerful than he’d ever experienced. He regained the ground he’d lost to Jeffrey, driving him back and back and back until the bastard hit the perimeter wall. It shuddered beneath the force of the impact and Arthur struck out with his fist as soon as the bastard gasped in surprise. Blood spattered as the force of the blow sent his face jerking to the side.

Arthur moved quickly, his wrist twisting, the cross-guard of his blade catching the opposing hilt and wrenching the weapon from that familiar hand. The force of his movement sent the blade whirling, skittering across the ground and far out of reach. He jabbed the tip of his own sword against the vulnerable neck in front of him and pressed hard enough to threaten him with an imminent death. Arthur leaned closer, his jaw clenching, growling, “Do you yield?”

Jeffrey spat at him and a roar of outrage rippled through stands.

Arthur pressed harder, a droplet of blood beading around the tip of his blade before sliding down over his exposed neck. He asked the question again. He demanded an answer from the bastard this time and Jeffrey seemed to suck on something sour before biting out his reluctant surrender. It was loud enough for the people in the crowd to hear him. Arthur stared at Jeffrey, his heart hammering, his frame tired and aching, the corner of his eye twitching with a glimmer of suspicion. A moment passed and then another before Arthur drew away, his attention fixed on the bastard for a moment longer before turning and striding away, his chin raised despite the exhaustion flooding through his limbs now that he’d defeated the man that had tormented him for so long.

He’d put a few feet between himself and his defeated opponent when the sharp hiss of steel and the sound of rapid steps had him whirling around in time to see the bastard ploughing into him with a lethal baselard in hand. He went down with a shout of pain as sharpened steel plunged in just below his shoulder, but Arthur struck out with the hilt of his sword and sent him toppling to the side. He followed the blow with his whole body, bringing his blade down with a snarl both anguished and enraged. The wall of muscle beneath him convulsed and then went still as steel sank straight down through flesh and bone and sinew before plunging into the earth.

Arthur rose to his feet and stumbled away, his gloved hand reaching for the wound with the short blade still embedded within it and pressed hard to staunch the rivulets of blood swelling around the baselard as the crowd in the stands went wild with triumphant celebration. His heart tried to explode out through his chest as the realisation of what he’d done a moment ago flooded through him. He staggered as his bruised and overheated head started swimming, but Sir Tor was there less than a moment later, his arms wrapping around him from behind and hauling him back against his chest as his knees buckled.

“Easy, Arthur, easy; I’ve got you. I’ve got you now. You’re safe.”

Sir Tor spoke quietly, reassuringly, his large hand coming to take over from his own as it began to shake. He nuzzled against his hair and that was the last thing Arthur remembered before succumbing to the darkness creeping in at the edge of his vision.

Arthur emerged from that darkness an indeterminate amount of time later and found himself warm and comfortable beneath his own blankets. He blinked slowly, feeling groggy, his vision remaining blurred for a moment before his sight cleared at last and his dear friend came into focus. Sir Tor slept at his bedside. His muscled frame slouched in the chair sitting nearby, one powerful leg thrown over the arm and one hand resting on the blankets covering Arthur. It didn’t look like a comfortable position to sleep in and Arthur knew the man would suffer later, though he might never admit it. His mouth curled around a fond smile and then stopped as the corner of his mouth burned with familiar pain. His whole face throbbed with pain as memories of the match flooded through his head for one overwhelming instant before Arthur managed to push them back down. He stared at Sir Tor instead of reliving those memories in his mind and moved his hand enough to cover the large one resting so close to his own. He squeezed the large hand with as much strength as he could muster – which wasn’t much at all. Sir Tor jolted awake immediately, almost toppling out of his chair, and it took a moment to realise Arthur was conscious again.

“Arthur,” Sir Tor whispered breathlessly, lunging forward to crush him in a warm embrace. He pressed kiss after kiss against his tender face and Arthur suffered through the faint throbs of pain just to have his beloved friend near, his own arm climbing higher, his shaking hand fisting the back of his tunic. Two large hands cradled his head as Sir Tor drew away, staring down at Arthur, his expression so awed and adoring that his stomach squirmed at the sight. His face flushed beneath the bruises and pain. His own hand slid down the length of that muscled arm until it reached his elbow. “Arthur, you were so brave in that arena.”

“You needn’t sound so surprised.” Arthur struggled not to smile and aggravate his sore face as he gazed up at Sir Tor, whose hand gentled and started smoothing his hair back from his forehead. “It’s been known to happen from time to time.”

“I know that.” Sir Tor smiled gently, his face soft with affection. His hand paused where it rested against his hair and then drew away, moving to cover the hand clutching at his elbow. He gave a warm squeeze. “I’m glad you’re awake. Ninianne hasn’t been able to calm down since you lost consciousness in the ring. I’ll let her know you’re awake as soon as she comes back. Morgana had to force her away; she knew you wouldn’t be pleased to wake up and find the girl hadn’t eaten or slept in your...absence – for lack of a better word.”

“She was right.” Arthur frowned and then winced in pain before releasing a frustrated noise. “I don’t know how you can look at me when I’m like this. I must look a terrible fright. I feel like I’ve been struck with a hammer a million times – no wonder Ninianne couldn’t calm down.”

“Hush. You look like you’ve been the bravest man on earth.” Sir Tor leaned down and pressed another kiss against his forehead. Arthur softened immediately, his urge to frown fading, his aching and tenderised frame mellowing against the soft bed. “I couldn’t be more proud of what you’ve accomplished.”

“I’m not proud.” Arthur turned his face away, his breath hitching, and glimpsed the bandages wrapped around his bare shoulder. He spared the briefest moment to wonder who’d treated his wound before fastening his attention upon the white wall of the tent. “I’m not proud of what I’ve done. I hate violence and bloodshed. I hate being in a position where I have to hurt people. I don’t like it. It isn’t who I am.”

“The best men never like it. Arthur,” Sir Tor answered gently, his voice summoning his attention immediately, “having been put into that position doesn’t take from the fact that you faced your demon and won. You gave him the choice to surrender or keep fighting and you honoured that choice. He didn’t. What happened to him was his own fault. You did nothing wrong.”

“You believe that?”

“I don’t just believe it. I know it in my bones.”

“Okay,” breathed Arthur, reaching for him again and Sir Tor came immediately, his arm sliding around him in a warm and welcoming embrace. He pressed his face against a strong shoulder with great care to avoid hurting himself too much. Several moments passed before Arthur drew away, murmuring, “How long have I been out cold? Do you know when I’m fighting next?”

“Two nights and you won’t be fighting again.” Sir Tor smoothed his hair back from his face again. His whole frame mellowed at the tender touch. He gazed up at his dear friend as Sir Tor continued speaking, his voice quiet and soft. “I’m sorry, but you missed your scheduled match this morning and your opponent proceeded automatically, though no one here thinks less of you for your absence. Actually, you’ll find the truth to be quite the opposite: countless residents from the town have come to offer support in the wake of your gruelling match. Some have even left presents.”

Arthur blinked in surprise and then struggled to sit up. Chuckling, his friend hastened to support him and the magic burst free to start creating a mound of pillows behind him as an extra precaution against him hurting himself without meaning to. Arthur looked past the strong man supporting him and almost choked on a gasp of surprise: where he should have seen a line of polished armour, there sat a collection of bouquets resting in vases of water and a number of baskets laden with food. There was even a pot filled with something still hot enough to steam.

His mouth watered at the sight.

His stomach grumbled.

“I’m hungry,” Arthur announced immediately, doing his best to shift his aching legs so he could rise from the bed. Pain pulsed through his whole body, as though he’d become one enormous bruise since the match. He clutched at his friend. “Tor, help me get to the table. I feel as weak as water at the moment and a nice bowl of broth would be wonderful right now.”

“You know, really, water isn’t that weak.”

“Shut up. I’m a Crown Prince and you’re supposed to listen to me.” Arthur struggled not to smile as Sir Tor helped him out of the bed. He was relieved to find he was wearing fresh trousers and knew the magic must have helped him with that while he’d been out cold. His frame ached and trembled with so much exhaustion as Sir Tor helped him cross the tent. “That smells so good.”

“I’m surprised it wasn’t what woke you up.” Sir Tor smiled as he helped him settle down onto the nearest chair, his hands warm and soft where he touched Arthur, the man hovering close in case he lacked the strength to remain sitting. The magic summoned a bowl and spoon from his luggage and settled them on the table in front of him before ladling out a serving of broth. “The Queen of Wessex had that broth delivered earlier today, not long before the tournament continued this morning. The smell of it drove me mad for quite a while. Fortunately, one of her resident practitioners cast an enchantment so the broth wouldn’t cool while you recuperated from your ordeal.”

Arthur took a moment to lean against Sir Tor, just focusing on his breathing, wincing when a deep breath pulled at his wound. He glanced down at his shoulder and assumed he had stitches beneath the bandages. He reached up and covered the hand resting upon his good shoulder and squeezed tiredly, glad for his company, and grateful for the quiet support offered to him. His eyes drifted closed. He could smell the scent of his skin through his tunic and it was warm and rich and masculine. Arthur hummed appreciatively, his face turning automatically, nuzzling against the source with care. One gentle hand carded through his hair, calluses dragging against his scalp.

A long moment passed before Arthur managed to pull away, reaching for his spoon with a hand that wouldn’t stop trembling. He scooped a spoonful of broth and ended up splattering his abdomen. His mouth twisted around a snarl of frustration and then a pained whimper escaped Arthur, whose spoon clattered into the bowl and sent broth splattering across the table in front of him. His shaking hand rose to cover his mouth. His eyes stung sharply, unwanted tears welling, and Arthur struggled to calm his breathing.

“Hey,” Sir Tor murmured tenderly, leaning down closer, catching his wrist and giving a careful tug. Arthur followed the unspoken command immediately, his weak hand falling away, his wrist secure in that familiar grip. He gazed up at the experienced Knight. A warm and gentle thumb pressed against his chin and held him steady, allowing Sir Tor to investigate his mouth with care. “You aren’t bleeding, Arthur, but you’re still swollen and tender where that tear is healing. Come on: get up. Let me help you. You’re going to be weak for a while – you expended an impressive and alarming amount of energy, Arthur, far more than advisable for a simple tournament. You’re still exhausted. You don’t have to be ashamed of needing some help right now.”

Arthur was seated on his lap a few moments later, his face flaming, his fatigued frame trembling, murmuring, “You just want me on your lap for a while.”

“Hardly,” Sir Tor teased quietly, nuzzling against his hair. His teasing smile grazed the back of his ear, allowing his voice to drop to almost less than a murmur. Arthur struggled not to smile in response. “I’d rather have some feeling in these legs later, but sometimes sacrifices must be made for the greater good.”

“How chivalrous.”

“Very, now come on: give me your hand.”

“This is stupid.”

“Nothing I do for the greater good is stupid.”

“We’ll have to agree to disagree on that.”

Arthur, however, did let him take his hand and guide it back to the spoon waiting for him. Sir Tor supported his hand and arm as he scooped a spoonful of broth and raised it to his mouth. Arthur struggled not to smile again as the trembling remained at a minimum. He blew a cooling breath over the spoon before easing it into his mouth with great care. Doing so still stung, but it wasn’t as awful as the burning sensation that had flared when his frustration overwhelmed him a few minutes earlier. He ate in silence but for the quiet monologue Sir Tor murmured against his ear, his voice soft and comforting, encouraging him to forget his embarrassment and relax into the strength and support provided.

He’d finished his meal and was still straddling that supportive lap when someone burst into the tent and exclaimed with joy, her familiar face brightening, and Arthur raised his trembling arm in welcome. Ninianne didn’t plough into him as usual. She embraced him with care instead and Arthur buried his face in her copper hair, inhaling sharply, detecting the faint scent of smoke and ale and baked bread. He ran a soothing hand over her back as she clung to him.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Ninianne whispered against his good shoulder, her voice shaking, while Morgana and his other companions entered the tent in her wake. He focused on his squire instead of looking at them: Ninianne was still young, still recovering, and she needed more reassurance than the others did right now. Something wet splashed on his skin and started sliding down his chest. She pressed her face even closer. “I was so scared. I thought he’d punctured your lung when he...when he...when he _stabbed_ you. Don’t you _ever_ scare me like that again. Don’t you _dare_.”

“I’ll do the best I can.”

“You’re terrible at making promises.” Ninianne pulled away, running the back of her hand over her face. She gave him a baleful look even as she sniffled. “You’re just like Merlin.”

“Not quite.” Arthur spoke quietly, his expression tender behind the bruises marring his flesh. He cupped her face with a shaking hand. “I’m not your brother.”

“You might as well be!”

“Is that what you think of me?” His heart clenched with tenderness and Arthur drew her close again as she started grumbling, insulting him with little heat. He murmured into her hair. “I never meant to scare you. But you know I can’t make that promise. I’m in a precarious position as Crown Prince and I can’t avoid danger, no matter how hard I try, but I’ll make this promise: I’ll never stop fighting. I’ll never give up. Okay?”

“Okay,” Ninianne whispered weakly, nodding against his shoulder, her arms winding around him all over again. More tears dripped down onto his skin. “You’d better not. I like having you around.”

“That isn’t much of a surprise. I’m a joy,” Arthur answered immediately, his tone serious despite the need to repress a sudden smile. However, his plan worked and soon Ninianne started giggling as she pulled away, her face brightening despite the tear tracks glistening on her youthful skin. “Have you eaten?”

Ninianne nodded immediately, smiling, running the back of her hand over her face.

“Have you slept?”

“Not since yesterday,” his squire answered sheepishly. “I was restless.”

“Okay, then you can curl up with me for a while.”

Arthur struggled not to smile at her before patting the large hand resting on his thigh. Sir Tor gripped his hips then as Arthur struggled to rise to his feet despite the strong urge to sit back down and the Knight rose behind him a moment later, grunting and grimacing, taking a brief moment to shake his legs out. He supported Arthur, his arms warm and strong, and Arthur turned a grateful glance upon him as the pair reached the bed. Sir Tor shrugged and said nothing; smiling, he helped Arthur into the bed with gentle care and held the blankets up until Ninianne crawled in after him. He tucked them both in and stepped away, his smile broadening as he sank into the chair nearby, sharing another glance with Arthur, who then looked down and watched the young witch as she snuggled against his side.

She rested her head against his good shoulder.

It wasn’t long until she was snoring quietly, his presence soothing her until slumber could coax her down into its healing depths. Her frame grew lax within moments. Arthur wrapped a warm arm around her and looked at his sister, who was murmuring to her maidservant about something, her expression serious.

“What happened when I was revealed?” His question summoned the immediate attention of all his companions – even Sir Lancelot and Sir Kay, who were polishing their blades in silence. “I couldn’t watch while I was fighting, so I’d like you all to collaborate and tell me while we’re all gathered here.”

“We didn’t have to do much in the end.” Sir Lancelot offered a sheepish smile as he spoke about the incident. “The word spread among those who worked in the castle as soon as I informed the Queen and it all happened in silence. Her people pounced on their allies as soon as you were revealed and none managed to get away, not even the people from Camelot and Mercia.”

“I’m sure you’ll be glad to hear,” continued Sir Kay, his voice confident and reassuring, “that the squire serving that bastard wasn’t pleased to do so. You should have seen his delight when he realised you were alive.”

“Mine wasn’t so pleasant to deal with.” Sir Tor frowned in displeasure. He folded his arms across his broad chest. His mouth twisted around something sour. “I’ve had his memories altered at your behest. I don’t like it. It doesn’t feel right to interfere with someone like that.”

“Unfortunately, the world isn’t perfect and we have to make difficult decisions sometimes.” Arthur offered him an apologetic glance. “You know we couldn’t leave his memories intact – not when he’d inform the King as soon as he could. Bayard would come after us.”

“I know that.” Sir Tor nodded seriously, the muscles in his arms tightening. “I know it had to be done. I don’t blame you.”

“It sounds like you do.”

“I’m sorry,” Sir Tor answered at once. He reached forward and cupped his face for a moment. Arthur leaned into his touch immediately, his gaze still full of apology, his mouth almost twitching with the urge to smile. “I don’t mean to sound like that. You know what I’m like: I’ve put the wrong foot forward a few times.”

Arthur snorted in mild amusement and looked away, remembering the night his friend arrived drunk and grew carried away, not to mention the morning after when a few misspoken words earned a breakdown. He looked at Morgana instead.

“What happened to his body?”

“The Queen had him preserved with magic and wrapped in linens for the trek back to Camelot.” Morgana shrugged as she stared at Arthur, her expression lacking even a hint of remorse for what had happened in the ring. Arthur supposed her reaction wasn’t surprising, given the various visions she’d suffered through as a child and the emotional turmoil she’d witnessed since growing closer to him. She wasn’t willing to offer even a scrap of compassion to that bastard and Arthur understood why; he wouldn’t be so quick to forgive someone that harmed one of his loved ones either. “She wrote the usual letter of condolence when something like this happens. Bayard won’t suspect a thing, not after she explains that he was struck down in the tournament because he wouldn’t concede defeat against one of her own warriors. One of them volunteered to corroborate the story, if Bayard comes investigating, but I doubt he will. Not when his own advisor can prove Sir Tor didn’t have a hand in it. We all know death is a common occurrence during such events.”

“Are you sure he won’t blame you?” Arthur looked at Sir Tor, who smiled at his show of concern. “What happens when your father searches your mind and sees me killing that bastard?”

“You needn’t worry,” Sir Tor answered immediately, his tone reassuring. “He’d lie to protect me sooner than he’d do so to protect you. I _am_ his son. Father has worked hard over the years to maintain such a strong level of trust with the King, and it has allowed him certain liberties – such as helping the turncoats remain undetected while the searches are ongoing. He helps me pass messages to them when the chance arises. I told you this during that breakfast we shared. Remember?”

“I remember. I just can’t help fretting,” Arthur mumbled as he looked away, his face heating, his hand fidgeting with the blanket folded across his middle. “I’m terrified these plans are going to come crashing down on our heads at some point. You know we can’t afford to let that happen.”

“Which is why,” Morgana interjected quickly, “Freya and I have been discussing means of passing messages between all of the factions involved with less chance of discovery, and I think we have a solution.”

“Oh?”

“We can use mirrors.” Morgana and her maidservant shared a brief glance before she looked at Arthur, her expression confident. “We could enchant mirrors in pairs and you’d have a half of both sets. Sir Tor would keep half of one set – this would allow him to pass messages to you. His father could deliver half of the other set to the dissidents. This would open a relay, naturally, as long as you keep both mirrors near at hand. Obviously, we have to protect the mirrors from discovery, especially the one residing with Sir Tor; we could use blood magic. It would be tied to him alone. No one else could reveal the enchantment dwelling within.”

Arthur stared at his sister, fighting the urge to smile again.

Morgana was a genius.  


	55. Chapter Fifty-Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, folks.
> 
> Please note: This chapter mentions consensual voyeurism. 
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think!

Arthur watched the quill moving, the faint scratching noise comforting, and smiled as the ink spread across the parchment as the magic wrote to him in careful lettering, as though it wanted the words to be as simple to read as possible. His torn mouth had healed considerably, the magic having helped the process along, giving his own healing strength a slight nudge in the right direction. His smile broadened as his gaze tracked the words spreading across the parchment resting on his lap. It didn’t hurt as much to smile now. Not that his face wasn’t still somewhat bruised and tender, but it was coming along nicely, as was the rest of him. Rest and relaxation helped him recuperate while the tournament continued without him. Getting to spend time with his magical lover and eternal companion without needing to don his armour at some point in the near future was an added and more than welcome bonus.

_You look beautiful today, so beautiful. We want to cover you with kisses until you start squirming, but we can be patient. We can wait until you’re feeling better, no matter how obsessed you think we are. We aren’t obsessed. We just like making you happy, and you seem happiest when writhing in ecstasy, so we’re doing you a favour when you sit down and think about it._

“Is that so?” His smile broadened even further, his tender face aching, but Arthur didn’t mind much as a phantom hand carded through his hair. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment as he luxuriated in the touch. Phantom lips pressed a soft kiss against the tip of his nose – one of the few parts of his face that didn’t feel like an enormous bruise. It earned a warm chuckle from Arthur, who leaned in for another, his heart warming when he was granted one at once. He gripped the folded edge of the blanket pooled in his lap with one hand decorated with bruises from punching his opponent so hard and longed to feel those phantom lips against his own. His heart stuttered in his chest. But his voice grew even more amused. “Next you’ll be telling me that pinning me against the nearest surface is supposed to make me feel safe and comfortable instead of putting me at your mercy, so you can have your wicked way, over and over and over again. You’re forgetting, dear lover, that I know you. I know how your mind works.”

The magic flicked his nose.

“I’m looking forward to you doing me another favour,” Arthur teased quietly, his voice not quite a murmur, welcoming the press of more kisses against his face and shuffling down lower while the magic kept the ink steady, using his good arm to support himself until his head hit the pillows. He mellowed against the mattress and let the magic sprawl across him before luxuriating in the warmth radiating from the golden miasma he’d become so intimate with since Morgana had stolen the crystal from Camelot. “I just wish that moment would come sooner rather than later. I don’t know what the point is in letting me heal naturally, when you and I both know what we want to do with each other, and doing that would trump convalescing. You must be doing this to torment me. You’re an expert at that.”

He laughed when the scratch of a quill started up again.

Parchment was soon held over his face.

_It isn’t our fault you’re obsessed with being spread open and filled with us. You’re just a glutton. Not that we consider such a thing a flaw or something of the like. But you’re the one so obsessed that waiting to heal like a mundane man is like a punishment. You heard what our mortal vessel said: if something can be done without sorcery, then it should be._

“You’ve healed me before and it isn’t as though you’re not helping the process along already, you know.” Arthur couldn’t help pouting, though he’d refuse to admit it when accused of such a thing. He heaved a sigh and looked away, feeling warm and content despite his complaints. “Did you ever talk to Merlin like this?”

_Writing to him was unnecessary, Arthur; we communicated through sensations. He’d know when we were unnerved or concerned or angry, but he’d urge us to remain quiet and let him handle whatever was bothering us. Usually, we let him._

Arthur and the magic bound to serve him spoke like this often while he recuperated from his ordeal in the ring, discussing this or that and it often involved teasing, which just earned bursts of warm laughter from him. But the magic never wrote to him while in company, however, and Arthur didn’t mind much. He liked having something that was just his. He liked not having to share the experience or explain what was happening; most people wouldn’t even understand the concept of magic controlling itself. Few would tolerate a flood of magic that had a mind of its own. It was wiser to keep such a power secret until all the realms of Albion were united at last. Albion would be a sanctuary, he knew, for those who’d face hate and distrust otherwise.

Arthur emerged from the tent less than a week later, his frame still somewhat tired from the lack of activity, but no longer aching. He drew his once again pristine white cloak around him to ward off the chill his tiredness cultivated. The sun was shining, and the breeze ruffled his hair, and Arthur hummed in appreciation as he tilted his head back to bask in the warm glow. He hadn’t been outside in forever and he was sure his face carried the pallor to match. He could have ventured out sooner, but Arthur found he liked spending time with his phantom lover, being cradled with care as the pair spoke in soft murmurs and sprawled words. He hadn’t wanted to leave the silence that reigned whenever his other beloved companions left him alone to recuperate without their presence. He hadn’t wanted to pick the mantle of Crown Prince and Once and Future King back up quite yet.

But he couldn’t hold off much longer; Arthur knew the tournament was drawing to a close at last. He’d have to speak with the Queen of Wessex soon enough. Arthur figured he might as well get somewhat comfortable with the outside world again before doing so.

Arthur heaved a sigh and lowered his head back down. He headed over to the town instead of the arena. He’d had enough of that place after what happened in the ring – after what he’d done to his childhood tormentor. It didn’t matter that his opponent had deserved his end for flouting the code of honour among Knights. It didn’t matter that he’d taken the life of someone who’d tortured him for years without relent. He’d still killed someone and their blood would never leave his hands.

It would never leave his soul.

His actions would stain him still when he’d kneel before the High Queen of the Fae in the distant future and await judgement for the life he’d led on earth. Arthur just hoped she’d take the circumstances into some consideration.

Dorchester was quiet.

Arthur wasn’t surprised. Most people would be down in the arena and watching the tournament continue. Those who remained were few: guards charged with care of the town and mothers with children too young to bring down to the arena. He smiled as one such child crawled into his path and plonked down in front him before fisting his cloak with the smallest hands imaginable. Amber eyes sparkled up at him. His heart warmed at the sight even as the frazzled mother, who couldn’t have been much older than twenty, hastened out of her household and bowed immediately, gasping, “Your Highness! I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion. He was there one minute and gone the next!”

“I don’t mind.” His smile brightened even further as the young woman beamed at him before scooping her son up from the ground and clucking her tongue in a scolding fashion. She knocked the dust and grit from his hands. His heart warmed even more when one little hand disappeared into a wet and pink mouth as the child stared at him with eyes that grinned. Arthur gestured at the child in quiet wonder as he spoke in a rush. “Do you mind whether I hold him for a minute?”

“It would be an honour,” she breathed instantly, her expression growing almost reverent as she held the child out in offer. Her sleeve rode up and revealed the black swirls that marked her as a Druid. “Mind your hair; Devon likes to tug, Sire.”

Arthur found himself holding Devon a moment or two later, one arm curled under his small bottom and the other supporting his short back under her warm guidance. He stared at Devon in open wonder, having never had the chance to get so close to someone so young and vulnerable before. No one in Camelot and Mercia had ever liked or welcomed or trusted him enough to let him hold their defenceless child before. It was almost bewildering to have the chance now. His hand drifted up to cradle the back of that small head and his heart stuttered in his chest as soft flaxen hair tickled his palm. Arthur swallowed thickly, his heart now thundering, almost afraid he’d drop Devon without meaning to as small hands started patting at his face. One hand was damp and disgusting with drool.

It was wonderful.

His vision blurring, Arthur smiled at Devon and blinked wetly, unable to quell the surge of emotions as Devon started bouncing in his arms with excitement. His heart shattered into pieces upon hearing the enthusiastic little noises that escaped the child. He blinked once more and looked at the mother, beaming, heedless of the fact that young Devon was doing his best to knock his teeth out with a bit of wild affection.

“How old is he?”

“Seven months. But it feels like Devon was born just yesterday; that child grows like a weed.” The young woman laughed quietly, fondly, admiring her son before returning her attention to Arthur and offering a warm smile. “He likes you.”

“Let him get to know me and he’ll change his mind soon enough.” His smile growing even larger, Arthur turned his head slightly, pressing his face against the smoothest and softest skin he’d ever felt in his life. He pressed a warm kiss there and his heart soared when doing so prompted a delighted burst of laughter, sounding more cheerful and enthusiastic than even Merlin had been when Arthur had lived in Camelot. Devon was warm and soft and cuddly, and Arthur almost wanted to take him away, but he knew that was his own growing desire to have children talking. He pressed another soft kiss before handing Devon back to his mother with a stifled sigh. “Thank you so much for giving me a chance to hold him. I’ve never been granted such a privilege before.”

“Then it was an even greater honour, Sire.” She smiled at him again and cradled her young son close. His fingers disappearing, Devon stared at him and grinned at Arthur, who wanted to hold the child once more. Arthur, however, refrained from asking as the young woman went on to say, “You’re more than welcome to visit while you’re in Dorchester, if you’d like. It seems a shame to end such a fast friendship like this.”

“I’d like that.” Arthur looked down and then away, his face warming, but unable to contain the grin that bloomed into existence. He looked at the pair again and waved at Devon to see if he’d wave back at him. His heart skipped a beat when Devon responded immediately, bouncing, grinning and giggling like a mad thing. He was almost certain he’d just fallen in love for the second time in his life. “I’d like that a lot. Thank you.”

Arthur lingered to converse with her for a few minutes more and then went on his way, meandering through the town and smiling, his steps light and his heart lighter. He was almost bursting at the seams with a rush of giddiness. He couldn’t wait to have children of his own someday; just the thought of holding a child burdened with those ridiculous ears he’d come to love so much made his spirit soar. He wanted his own small person to devote himself to and cherish long after the child grew into a respectable adult capable of ruling their people when he and Merlin slipped into the otherworld at some point in the distant future. He wanted to soothe his future children after nightmares and tend to scrapes gained through misadventures. He wanted to feel the powerful surge of pride when his children took their first steps and fumbled their first words. He wanted to fumble through giving advice about love and romance before directing them to Merlin instead – because Merlin was far better at talking about personal matters than he was.

He wondered whether Merlin wanted that with him.

His heart hammered at the thought of Merlin cradling their newborn babe in his arms and glancing at Arthur, those eyes sparkling and his mouth smiling, making him go weak at the knees. His chest tightened at the notion of sprawling in bed together, smiling and staring at each other, their babe sleeping in the space between them and their hands tangling over the small belly, which would rise and fall beneath their loving touch. He couldn’t imagine a moment more perfect and wondrous than that. Surely, the man he loved would want to experience such a thing with him. He’d ask Merlin as soon as the chance to do so arose. Hopefully, he wouldn’t be too old to have natural children when that chance came along, but he wasn’t going to hold his breath. He and Merlin could adopt just as well.

Arthur almost floated into the tavern on that wave of happiness and enthusiasm and it didn’t even matter that the barkeep fumbled a tankard at the sight of him. His brown sleeves were pushed up to his elbows and revealed the swirling lines that marked him as a Druid. Arthur beamed at the man and hastened to the counter, heedless of the few exhausted guards shovelling food into their mouths while watching him pass by, and retrieved his purse before asking, “Could I get a full breakfast?”

“Certainly, but you can put that purse away; it’ll be on the house this morning, Sire.”

The barkeep inclined his head at once and then slipped away, disappearing into the kitchen while Arthur stared after him. He didn’t splutter, but he felt wrong-footed and uncertain. He paused for a moment and then turned away, his gaze sweeping the room before settling on a prime location: it was the brightest corner in the tavern. He settled down at the table before returning his purse to its usual place and then smiled at the guards nearby, inquiring after their night.

“Tiring,” the nearest one answered immediately, offering an exhausted smile in return. She shovelled a piece of sausage into her mouth and chewed for a minute before swallowing, her eyes warm. “Not that we’re complaining, Your Highness. We’re proud to serve the Queen and the realm she governs.”

“I know the feeling,” assured Arthur, his own smile deepening. He remembered his own pride in serving Merlin as a manservant. “I served as a manservant in Camelot for quite a while and I’m still proud to have served His Highness. Prince Merlin is one of the kindest men I’ve ever met.”

“You served Emrys?” Surprise rippled through the guards seated near Arthur, all of whom were focused upon him instead of their breakfasts now. The nearest guard leaned closer, resting her chin in her palm and her elbow upon the table. “Wasn’t it weird?”

“Not really,” Arthur answered awkwardly, his face warming somewhat. He looked down at his hands for a moment and then took a deep breath before giving the lot of them an even stare. “I couldn’t remember being a nobleman. I’ve been a commoner since I was a young child. Servitude was all I knew for years – between running errands through the town and farming, helping with the miller, and other duties I took on to earn a living. Prince Merlin was a kind and welcoming man to work for, one who never made me feel like I was worth less for being born a Pendragon. He made me feel like I was a man worth having around. Why would working for him be strange?”

“He was living in your true home. I’d find serving him weird.”

“It was jarring, certainly, whenever I remembered that I’d been born in the castle and should have been the Crown Prince. That doesn’t mean I considered it home.” Arthur shrugged and looked away, his giddiness fading, leaving him with a hollow ache in his chest as thoughts of home flooded through him. He swallowed in an attempt to clear the ache away, a faint lump growing in his throat. Magic pulsed against his sternum and most of the guards in the tavern twitched as though sensing the surge of power. His ache faded somewhat as he remembered that a fraction of home lived with him now. “Home is where the heart lies and mine lies with people instead.”

A moment or two of silence passed before the guardswoman went to say, “I thought Emrys lost his magic?”

“It wasn’t lost!” Arthur tensed as soon as he realised he’d raised his voice and then drew in a calming breath. He uncurled his sudden fists. One hand sought the lump in his tunic where his crystal was concealed from view. He turned an even stare upon each of them in turn. His voice quietened. “I apologise for shouting, but this is a sensitive subject for me: I was there when it happened. His magic wasn’t lost. It was stolen from him at the hands of someone he loved because he chose to come after me when I did something stupid and reckless. It was stolen from him because he chose to protect me. I was entrusted with a fragment of his magic some time before it happened. But his magic won’t be gone forever. He’ll get it back. I know he will.”

Arthur looked away, leaning away, a grateful smile making an appearance when the barkeep arrived with a platter laden with food. His stomach grumbled when the smell of sausages assailed his senses and Arthur thanked the man profusely, earning a beaming smile in the process. He insisted on reimbursing the barkeep for his troubles and yet the man was adamant that his breakfast would remain complimentary; he couldn’t be persuaded to change his mind. Arthur, frowning, purchased a tankard of mead instead and tipped him for his kindness. His tankard was delivered in moments and Arthur sighed in contentment as he swallowed a mouthful: he loved the lingering sweetness from the honey, not to mention the blend of spices that warmed him from the inside.

Fortunately, the other patrons knew when to leave him in peace and he wasn’t disturbed while dining, which allowed him to relax again and find a glimmer of the happiness he’d felt earlier. It wasn’t the same level he’d reached when holding Devon and speaking to his frazzled mother, but it was an improvement upon the hollow ache he’d felt when speaking to the guards dining after their late shift. Arthur supposed that was the downside to being recognised for who he was meant to become one day; people would want to discuss Emrys without realising just how much it would affect him.

He didn’t blame them.

Arthur finished his breakfast in complete silence while the magic pulsed against his sternum in repeated bursts of warm comfort. He then rose and spared a brief nod of acknowledgement for the guards and a deeper one for the barkeep before vacating the tavern without a word.

Stepping out into the sunshine improved his mood even more and he continued to meander through the town. He took note of the various shops he’d have to frequent in the future to strengthen the rapport between himself and the townsfolk before locating the stables and slipping inside. He wasn’t surprised to find that it looked bigger on the inside. He was used to such impossibilities now. His face lit up when he spotted Hecate in an overlarge stall with room enough to spread her wings and give her muscles a good stretch. Arthur strode through the stables to the sound of her joyous trilling, her large head thrusting out over the door, and he threw his arms around her in lieu of speaking. Her warmth nuzzled against him as she trilled into his ear, the sound soft and welcoming, earning a contented sigh from him.

“Have you been stuck in here all this time? I’d hoped one of the men would have remembered to bring you out for some fresh air at least! I’ll have to have a word with them later, but we have more important things to contend ourselves with right now. You must be itching to fly,” Arthur murmured when he drew away, his hand running over her large smooth beak. He stared into her large golden eyes and his mouth curled around a smile before he pressed a soft kiss against her black feathers. He reached for the latch on the door and let it swing wide before slipping through. Hecate pranced excitedly; her golden eyes watched Arthur slip past her, fetching the saddle and bridle. It wasn’t long until Arthur had all the straps buckled and the tension checked and then he led Hecate from the stall.

Well.

He tried to lead her.

Honestly, Hecate just tore past him and threatened to rip his arm from its socket in her boundless enthusiasm. Almost bursting at the seams with fond laughter, Arthur did his best to keep pace with her as she burst out into the open air before she slowed at last and allowed him to mount her, his muscles stretching for the first time in a while. He stifled a groan and rubbed where the muscle in his thigh stretched. He then seized the reins and gripped with his legs as excitement rippled through Hecate. He snapped the reins and Hecate bolted straight away, her hind hooves thundering against the earth even as her talons gouged and propelled her forward. Hecate would do nothing less than gallop now that she was free from her confinement. His heart pounded in his chest to the same furious rhythm of her hooves and then she propelled herself into the air, her wings snapping out and beating, driving them up and up and up.

Wind ruffled his hair and Arthur started laughing, his fear of being in the air an almost negligent note in the back of his mind. His eyes drifted closed for a moment and his head tipped back as the wind and sun danced across his available skin. His burst of laughter fading, Arthur sighed heavily, wishing that Merlin could be there to luxuriate in the wind and sun with him. He’d give his left leg to feel those arms winding around him from behind and Merlin pressing close enough to nuzzle the back of his neck.

Arthur, however, refused to dwell on his absence again. He threw himself into strengthening the bond with Hecate instead. He let her work off some steam before guiding her through drill after drill. Hecate never drifted too far from Dorchester, circling back repeatedly, the familiar grounds stretching out below them. The pair remained in the air until Arthur felt her muscled frame trembling with exhaustion beneath him and then he guided the hippogriff back to the ground. He dismounted and ran a proud hand over her feathers before leading her back to the stables. He took his time with her, unbuckling the straps of her saddle and bridle and murmuring praise all the while. Hecate trilled tiredly, her muscles trembling as Arthur began washing her, his hands gentle and the water just warm enough. His mouth curled around a smile as her eyes grew heavy, dozing, her frame leaning in one direction and then the other until Arthur finished at last. He watched her settle down in the hay, his smile growing, his heart swelling with a powerful surge of affection.

Still smiling, and his inner thighs aching, Arthur vacated the stables and headed back to his tent. He’d had enough of exploring for a while. He just wanted to relax now and spend some time talking with Emrys in private.

“Did we ever have children together,” Arthur asked quietly, curiously, unclasping his cloak once he’d slipped inside his tent. He set it down on one of the tables and hummed in appreciation as several tendrils of magic started winding around him. His eyes fluttered closed as he leaned into the one caressing his jaw. The magic caressed him for a few moments longer before flitting across the tent to start writing, the quill scratching, the sound comforting. His eyes drifted back open and he watched the magic write for a moment before crouching to unlace his boots. He pulled them and his stockings off before heading over to the bed and dumping them on the ground nearby, crawling onto the soft mattress and shuffling around until he found a comfortable position.

The various odds and ends involved in writing soon came floating over to the bed and the magic held the parchment in front of Arthur, allowing him to read at his leisure:

_We’ve had children together a few times throughout the centuries. It was how the Dragonlords began in the first place. But it wasn’t often that we had that kind of relationship. Usually, you were married long before we found you. You were devout in your vows whenever that happened. You’d look at us with such longing, but you’d never permit yourself to touch inappropriately, no matter how much you wanted to. We were proud of you – there aren’t a lot of monarchs that would do the same. We’ve encountered our fair share of them over the centuries._

“What about the first life we spent together? Did we have children then?”

_Unfortunately, you were afraid of our power as often as you were awed at what we could accomplish with a mere snap of our fingers. You often hid beneath the furs we shared whenever a storm developed during an argument. We’d never frighten you deliberately, but you were so primitive and unprepared compared to how you are now. We were the first form of magic you’d ever experienced. We’re not certain you’d have been able to grasp such a dramatic change to your body, not then._

_You took a woman from your settlement to bed instead when the need to sire an heir arose – though never without discussing the matter with us first. You were respectful of our relationship and respectful of our heart. You were embarrassed when the woman asked whether we’d prefer to watch instead of leaving you alone in her company, but we could see your frame tensing, waiting for our answer on bated breath even as you avoided looking at us. You nibbled your lip as you often did when you wanted something, but weren’t sure you could ask because you believed us so divine and to ask for something more was unconscionable to you._

_We knew what you wanted from us._

_We knew you needed to have us there and were too humiliated to ask._

_So we chose to remain in your company, and we watched you crush her against the furs we shared. We watched your muscles ripple with strength as you claimed her, eyes darkened with pleasure and longing, sliding your gaze up to stare at us even as you buried yourself within her over and over. You continued to stare at us while doing your duty, but you were soon swept up in that ecstasy, eyes squeezing shut and heading tossing back to put that beautiful neck on display, and we tensed with fear because you were more vulnerable with your eyes closed and your neck bared._

_But nothing ever happened._

_You were fine._

_We were just a ball of nerves whenever you were in a vulnerable position. You comforted us later, straddling our lap and smoothing our hair, pressing the softest kisses all over our face as you murmured that you were safe._

_That you’d let nothing take you from us._

_You became more accustomed to feats of power as the centuries went on and you welcomed the change a few times. You never stopped being anxious whenever you were with child and yet you welcomed the chance anyway, welcomed it with a courage that reminded us how fortunate we were._

_How fortunate we were to find you._

_We were enamoured with the sight of you swollen with our child. We couldn’t keep our hands to ourselves. You often found it amusing; you teased us mercilessly, but welcomed our touch anyway, often taking pleasure with us. You were so beautiful. We had to cradle your bump in our hands whenever you grew heavier, supporting you as we made love together, but you were an eager thing, cursing and demanding, spreading your thighs wider as we claimed you from behind or scrawling our chest as you rode us into blissful oblivion._

_We liked watching your breasts bounce: it was hypnotic._

Arthur flushed immediately, almost choking on a burst of laughter, though his stomach twisted with embarrassment. He buried his face in the palm of his hands for a moment or two. But he couldn’t help but wonder what he’d look like with the figure of a woman. He wondered whether he’d look even more like his mother or remain similar to his aunt in build. He wondered what his breasts would look like. Just the thought made him flush even deeper, his mortification growing. He lowered his hands and glanced at the swirling miasma of golden magic and blurted quickly, “What about Merlin? Does he ever think about having children with me?”

_Our mortal vessel used to think about getting you with child almost from the beginning, but his stance might have changed since then. We aren’t conscious of his thoughts and feelings while separated from him. But he used to sketch image after image of you swollen with our child. Our vessel burned them whenever he’d looked his fill for the time being – those sketches were the one thing he’d never let someone find him possessing, no matter how he longed to spend hours looking at them and then sleep with them pressed beneath his pillow._

_He could excuse the various speeches he’d written._

_He could excuse the future coronet he’d sketched._

_But he could never excuse the sketches of you swollen with our child. He could never explain it away, not the longing in your dark stare or the tender hand cradling your swollen belly, nor the breasts and other aspects exposed whenever he imagined what you’d look like without clothes on. No matter how feminine or shapely, those sketches still bore a strong resemblance to you and being discovered would have spelled disaster for all involved._

“What...what did I look like in them?” The question was hesitant when it escaped Arthur, whose heart thundered in his chest at the knowledge that Merlin used to sketch images of him whenever he had the chance. His blush deepened. “Was I...attractive?”

The magic flicked his nose in a scolding fashion and then started writing, the script quick and messy, but still legible. His mouth curled around a small smile as he watched the words spread across the parchment:

_Arthur, you’re attractive all the time. We’ve seen you wearing a more effeminate figure before – more than once – and you were beautiful each time. There has never been a moment when you weren’t the most beautiful person we’d ever encountered._

_That won’t ever change._


	56. Chapter Fifty-Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, folks.
> 
> Note: this chapter contains consensual magical bondage and blindfolding, and orgasm denial.
> 
> Disclaimer: the two songs making an appearance in this chapter aren't mine.
> 
> The Elfin Knight is a Scottish folk song, and has existed for several centuries. This particular version belongs to Kate Rusby, but I swapped "church" for "grove."
> 
> Sir Eglamore also belongs to Kate Rusby, but is one of her originals. However, I thought it was very fitting for a tavern song and used it in the fic anyway, because the words are super euphemistic and bawdy. This fic is not historically accurate. :P
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think! :D

His breath hitched in his chest as Arthur tugged against the glowing tendrils of magic binding his wrists and ankles to the bedposts. He could move his arms and legs just enough to be comfortable without erasing the bound and trapped feeling that made his stomach squirm with nerves. He could see nothing, nothing but the shadow of his eyelids as the deep blue stretch of soft fabric remained folded over his eyes and bound behind his head. His phantom lover had been careful to avoid catching his hair in the knot keeping the makeshift blindfold secured in place. Emrys had been careful with the restraints as well. Nothing went farther than the limits he’d discussed with Emrys earlier, Arthur having blurted out that he wanted to be surprised in bed. His phantom lover had insisted on discussing what he was and wasn’t willing to do during their round of lovemaking, which had earned a mortified blush from Arthur, who’d stammered through an admission that he’d been thinking about blindfolds since their mutual friend had mentioned them.

He’d then rushed through a number of things he wasn’t willing to do – most of it dangerous and things he’d overheard in taverns. The Cornish people he served were a bewildering bunch. Honestly, Arthur couldn’t fathom how someone could be aroused when a person had their hands wrapped around their neck. He couldn’t fathom letting someone have that much power over him on purpose. He couldn’t stomach even the idea of being that vulnerable again.

His throat constricted at the thought.

Nor could he grasp the concept of being aroused when someone had their naked skin teased with the edge of a blade. It just seemed too outlandish and dangerous to attempt with his phantom lover.  

Emrys had been eager to blindfold Arthur, but had admitted to wanting to see him gagged at some point in the future. Arthur, however, hadn’t wanted to be gagged during their round of lovemaking. Not while bound to the bed and blindfolded at least. But he’d given Emrys leave to surprise him in some way, as long as it wasn’t something he’d consider dangerous or even disturbing. His phantom lover had agreed to his terms at once and so now he found himself waiting, waiting to be touched without knowing when or how it would happen in the slightest.

Arthur moistened his lips as he listened carefully, his ears perked for even the slightest hint that his phantom lover was nearby. His naked frame grew lax with trust even as warm anticipation coiled inside him.

Suddenly, he detected the presence of someone approaching – the sound loud and jarring, nothing like the swirling sensations that accompanied Emrys. It sent a shiver of fear down his spine. His hands clenched. His muscles twitched and tensed with a spark of alarm when the sound of footsteps neared and his heart started thundering, but the sound soon moved away, the boisterous and laughing man responsible for the burst of fear jolting through him never once entering the tent.

A strange wave of giddiness washed through Arthur, though his manhood twitched against his naked belly, the head weeping, and arousal tightening between his spread thighs. It took a few moments to settle back down. Arthur drew in a long and calming breath and let his tension ebb as he exhaled and waited patiently, curiously, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth.

His crystal was a warm weight against his sternum.

His breath quivered out of him when something light and soft brushed against the arch of his right foot. A feather, Arthur realised as he swallowed thickly, his hard length twitching all over again and a warm tingle rippling across his sensitive skin. His other foot jerked against the glowing restraints as the feather swept across that vulnerable arch and a startled moan escaped as a shiver of delight ran through him.

His head pressed back against the pillows.

His hands clenched all over again.

His stomach then twisted with a confusing spark of frustrated disappointment and pleasure as the sweeping touch disappeared immediately, as though to punish him for moving, for responding to the touch he’d been aching to receive since he’d first been bound to the bed and blindfolded. Arthur bit his lip and did his best to calm himself until he reached the same anticipatory, but relaxed state he’d been in a few minutes earlier, his breath even and his lips parting as the sparks of pleasure floating through him grew more numerous without provocation.

His toes curled against the bedclothes.

One delectable moment grew into another, time extending around him and distorting, both dwindling into nothing and stretching into an exquisite eternity, as Arthur continued to breathe slowly, waiting, doing his best to not grow impatient and start demanding to be touched and taken. Arthur knew he was greedy, almost aching, but he wasn’t desperate to be touched and devoured and claimed yet. He liked luxuriating in the waves of anticipation that threatened to make him squirm against the bed. He liked luxuriating in the warm and floating sensations that drifted through him whenever Emrys took him to bed in recent months and crushed him against the mattress.

Honestly, Arthur loved being in the hands of both Merlin and his silent phantom lover, both of whom took so much pleasure from having him at their joined and separate mercies. He loved not having to make decisions or ponder over a single thing, but for how to please Merlin and his magic. He loved knowing his phantom lover would take care of his needs – carefully; tenderly; possessively; roughly; however he’d need or want to be taken whenever Merlin or his powerful magic made love to him.

Arthur relaxed further into the mattress and then moaned quietly, his sensitive and vulnerable skin tingling, when the feather returned to graze the ball of one foot and then the other after a pause both short and infinite. His hands curled into fists again and his broad frame began tensing, but Arthur didn’t jerk away, not this time. His breath hitched as the sweeping touch of the feather continued to return irregularly, trailing across sections of his skin that seemed so random and setting his endless nerves alight.

His frame tensed and relaxed over and over, the anticipation rising and falling, but Arthur never moved more than the magic allowed him to. His breath quivered. His heart stuttered and jumped and thundered in his chest and still the exquisite torment went on and on. His face warmed and the flush started spreading, Arthur moaning, almost arching up from the bed when the feather grazed one hard and aching nipple just waiting to be touched and teased and tormented. He broke out into a warm sweat with the effort it took to remain still instead of arching, arching toward his phantom lover and begging, pleading to be touched and taken. He drew his lip between his teeth and bit back the desperate plea balancing on the edge of his tongue. His other nipple was teased for even longer, the softness of the feather tickling, trailing and swirling, lingering. Arthur started itching with the urge to squirm with pleasure – just to find some relief from the tingling sensation rippling down through his tortured nipple and feeding into the pool of need swelling in his lower abdomen and between his naked thighs.

Bead after bead of seed pooled on his belly, his manhood twitching, sure to be flushed a furious red as it ached to be teased and devoured. His manhood was eager and wanton while Arthur did his best to ignore the desperation surging through him.

It wasn’t about him.

It wasn’t for him to decide when enough was enough.

Emrys knew what he needed and knew how to give it to him when he needed it.

Arthur struggled to focus on his breathing, but couldn’t help the anguished whine that escaped him when the feather moved away, his back almost arching yet again in an attempt to get the light and teasing touch back upon his tortured nipple. He refused to chase the feather, but the barrel of his chest heaved with each breath as his broad frame trembled with the burning need that he tried so hard to suppress. That he tried to shove down until it disappeared. Time seemed to swim past him endlessly, indistinct and immense. He was ready, ready, so ready, and yet he wasn’t ready in the slightest. He didn’t want this to end because he couldn’t keep himself calm enough or trust that Emrys knew how to take care of him. He didn’t want to be desperate and greedy, thinking of himself only, unable to let his phantom lover have what it wanted most from him: trust.

He wanted to be praised for doing well.

He wanted the soft caresses and tender kisses that let him know he’d been so good for Emrys. His throat clamped down around a quiet sob when the thought that he hadn’t been good enough to earn them flickered across his mind just as the feather came back without warning, the soft tip stroking along the underside of his scrotum before slipping upwards to tease the length of his manhood.

Arthur was moving before he realised what he was doing, his back arching, releasing a strangled cry, his jewels drawing up tight against him with a suddenness that sent his heart hammering in his chest. His hands pulled at their golden restraints as the sweeping touch tipped him over the edge. He shuddered through his climax as his aching arousal pulsed over and over, his seed splashing across his heaving belly, splattering along his chest and decorating his tormented nipples.

Trembling, Arthur went limp against the mattress and panted heavily, whimpering when a familiar heat sprawled across his blazing skin and added to the inferno sweltering him.

It took some time to come down from that high and Emrys didn’t let Arthur come down too far, though his phantom lover did take the time to run soothing hands over him like a man gentling his horse and press a series of kiss over the inches of his face still available. He knew he’d done well then and his chest swelled with the unspoken praise. That familiar sensation flooded through him in warm waves. His mouth curled around a smile before Emrys drew him into a deep and lingering kiss that made him whimper, his bottom lip tender from biting, but each push and slide of those phantom lips against his had him yearning for so much more. He welcomed the press of that familiar phantom tongue without question and moaned softly, needy, a spark of pleasure bursting back to life in his lower abdomen.

Arthur followed that mouth as it drew away, raising his head automatically, his muscles straining, but the phantom fingers that gripped his hair and pushed him back down in silent command made his breath hitch. Heat sparked through him. His lips parted with growing desire. Warm anticipation coiled within him as the familiar head of that phantom length brushed against his tender lip. His heart stuttered in his chest and Arthur opened his mouth wider, eager to feel that familiar weight on his tongue again. Emrys pushed inside slowly, the phantom length sliding deeper, stretching his lips wider, and Arthur moaned all over again as his mouth was claimed. He relaxed into the mattress as that phantom length drew away, returning a moment later, thrusting slow and shallow for a moment as Arthur grew accustomed to having that long and somewhat thick manhood pressing into his mouth after so long, but Emrys soon grew more impassioned.

Arthur was eager and needy, desperate to please his phantom lover. His hands clenching and unclenching, Arthur focused on his breathing, taking breaths through his nose whenever he could as the magic took his mouth deeper, the head of that length pushing in far enough to have him choke when it brushed against the back of his throat.

His vision would have blurred had he been able to see.

His stomach tightened.

His toes curled.

His manhood twitched against his belly, hardening; heedless of the powerful climax he’d experienced earlier. Arthur grew almost delirious with desire when the phantom hand fisting his hair tightened its grip and tugged firmly, his scalp aching, the sensation filtering down through him and winding around his manhood.

Emrys thrust deep over and over, plundering his mouth with deliberate care. It was never rougher or faster than Arthur could handle: the magic knew he was unaccustomed to having his mouth claimed.

His phantom lover thrust twice more before stilling, almost as though Emrys were climaxing, that phantom hand holding his head motionless for a moment or two before drawing away, leaving Arthur sobbing hoarsely, his throat and jaw aching, but adrift in a haze of pleasure as Emrys cradled him close and covered him in kisses.

Phantom hands ran over his frame in a soothing, encouraging, prideful manner and Arthur was convinced that he’d started glowing from the amount of praise pouring down inside him. His restraints disappeared and Arthur moaned softly, relieved and a little disappointed even as he welcomed the countless kisses raining down over his face. Arthur shivered as a gentle hand carded through his hair and fingertips dragged across his scalp. Phantom lips captured his mouth in a tender kiss and Arthur hummed appreciatively, letting himself be swept up in Emrys’ whims.

Arthur was soon urged to turn over, the magic enveloping him steady, supporting him as his limbs wobbled beneath him. His blindfold remained secured in place. His manhood throbbed with want as Emrys slid a pillow beneath his hips before guiding him down into a loose sprawl. He shuffled his thighs apart with a pleased sigh and pressed his cheek against the bedclothes as his phantom lover began nuzzling at the nape of his neck with familiar tenderness. Phantom lips trailed over his sensitive skin. Arthur moaned encouragingly, mellowing even further, his mind still floating on the high that rippled through his veins. One phantom hand ran along the curve of his back and his muscles shifted as he started arching, unable to stop himself from pushing against the caress like an overgrown feline.

The caress lasted less than a moment before disappearing, Arthur raising his head as disappointment flickered through him when that phantom hand didn’t find his backside at once and start exploring, but a gasp escaped him when phantom lips trailed along his neck before snaring his vulnerable earlobe in a wet heat that made his sensitive skin tingle. He shivered in pleasure. His thighs spread wider, welcoming, but Emrys made no move to stake a claim yet.

Emrys seemed intent on worshipping him first.

It _was_ worship. There were no other words to describe the reverence with which Emrys touched and kissed him – as though he were precious and more beautiful than words could express.

Just the thought made his heart soar.

Emrys suckled at his ear for a moment longer before moving back along, phantom lips trailing back over paths visited already, lavishing attention upon inch after inch of available skin. Kisses trailed down over the scars decorating his shoulder and back. Heat flared through Arthur, who gripped the bedclothes in growing pleasure and couldn’t help reacting, his hips rocking, grinding his arousal against the pillow supporting him. The miasma of magic sprawling across him rippled as though Emrys were laughing, one phantom hand coming to still his almost insistent hips with a firm grip. Arthur moaned quietly, the pleasure washing through him growing, swelling, surging, encouraged under the reaffirmation that Emrys was in command now.

That he needn’t fret about a single thing.

That he’d be taken care of as long as he trusted in the magic.

Emrys would take care of him now and forever.

Phantom lips continued to trail down along the curve of his back and then paused above his backside. Warm memories of their earlier conversations flooded through Arthur, whose face warmed with a fusion of embarrassment and pleasure as he remembered Emrys mentioning the dimples on his lower back. He knew those exquisite phantom lips were kissing them now, worshipping them. Arthur turned his face and buried it deeper in the bedclothes even as he canted his hips in blatant invitation. He moaned as a pair of phantom hands cupped the back of his thighs and gripped firmly, their touch possessive and controlling, sliding up and up and up to the swell of his backside. His manhood twitched and wept against the pillow crushed beneath him. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the bedclothes even tighter. His mouth opened around a silent moan as those phantom hands squeezed and kneaded his backside even as those phantom lips lavished attention upon the dimples on his lower back. His breath quickened until he was panting, eager, desperate as his skin warmed with growing pleasure.

Exquisite sensation burst across his nerves when those phantom lips started moving downward at last. His breath hitched over and over as Emrys trailed kisses down between his buttocks while those phantom hands kept him spread open. He choked on a whimper of need as the magic pressed the ghost of a kiss against his taint and then another, and another, teasing him until he started pushing back despite the firm hands gripping his backside. He was wanton and eager. He was little more than a slave to the desire burning through his veins and desperate for some relief. He sobbed with relief when Emrys kissed him harder, more deliberately, phantom teeth nibbling for a moment here and phantom tongue lapping for a moment there.

Arthur was soon lost in a haze of ecstasy, his hips rocking, and his face wet where tears had seeped through the blindfold to stain his cheeks. His fists clenched tighter whenever Emrys did something exquisite with his tongue and then relaxed when his phantom lover eased away, giving him a moment to recover before coming back in force to start the process all over again. His voice grew hoarse with need as he panted and begged fruitlessly, each moan of pleasure that escaped him an unspoken invitation to continue tormenting him until Arthur started shaking, his jewels drawn up tight against his body, and his manhood weeping more and more. He started to climax again when Emrys pressed a lone phantom finger inside him suddenly, pushing deep without mercy.

Arthur, however, failed to climax when a sudden pulsating band of magic wrapping around his aching manhood brought the sensation crashing to a stop. He couldn’t help the startled and somewhat anguished cry, which soon morphed into a sob as Emrys eased the phantom finger back and then slid in again with more care. His taint was wet and slick with something that felt like a mixture of spit and thick oil. Each press was exquisite and teased him just right. Emrys kept him on the edge of that climax for what like an eternity, that one lone finger becoming two before long, scissoring, twisting, and opening him up with deliberate care that brought him to another denied climax.

He was soon incoherent with desire.

His chest heaved with each sob when two fingers soon became three.

Phantom lips found the back of his neck all over again when those perfect fingers left him at last. He could feel himself clenching, desperate to get those fingers back and desperate to have so much more. It was the best and worst moment he’d ever experienced when Emrys pressed inside some moments later, that phantom length warm and familiar, sliding inside him without relent. His frame tensed and then relaxed in pleasure as the magic started rocking against him. Arthur was cradled close and cherished as Emrys crushed him against the bed and made love to him slowly, deeply, just like he’d wanted when he’d spoken about it while indulging in the bathtub.

One phantom hand fisted his hair gently, tugging lightly, making his scalp tingle.

The other gripped his hip.

He was floating, floating on the pleasure of being so possessed. His heart stuttered in his chest as his abdomen tightened. His veins sang. His skin burned with liquid fire. His thighs slipped wider, welcoming Emrys a fraction deeper, and Arthur gasped his encouragement between each sob. His pleasure climbed higher and higher, the kisses trailing over his shoulder now stoking and enflaming, praising, encouraging. It warmed him from the inside until he thought he’d combust.

It was too much.

It was too much for one man to suffer and endure.

His framed tensed all over again with an impending climax and this time there was no pulsating band of magic gripping his arousal to prevent him from spilling, convulsing, his muscles contracting and releasing, his mouth open around a silent scream that stuttered into harsh breaths as he went limp against the mattress.

_Gods._

Arthur didn’t realise he’d spoken the word aloud until he felt Emrys rippling, the affectionate laughter silent. Trembling, he tried to lift his head to give the miasma of golden magic a glare despite the blindfold still in place and found he couldn’t. He couldn’t move. He could do nothing but lie there panting, the barrel of his chest heaving, his manhood spent and satisfied and even somewhat sore where it was crushed against the pillow resting him beneath him.

Emrys sprawled across his back in a smug fashion.

Tender kisses trailed over his hot and damp skin that became twice as sensitive in the wake of his pleasure and Arthur mellowed even further, dissolving into a warm puddle of contentment. He wasn’t sure how long he sprawled on the bed beneath his phantom lover, who kissed and stroked him tenderly, ensuring that he knew he was safe and loved at all times.

It didn’t matter how long he’d lain there.

All that mattered were the phantom fingers now undoing the knot securing the blindfold in place and the other warm hand ghosting along his vulnerable side. His eyes remained closed for a long moment before drifting open and Arthur smiled blearily, his vision blurred through the tears of pleasure that still clung to his lashes.

Emrys flitted away, the golden miasma of magic swirling through the air, and then returned with his wineskin.

Arthur turned over slowly, sluggishly, and shuffled back until the pillows were supporting him. His backside ached something fierce despite the slow lovemaking, but he supposed the prolonged passion of it more than made up for the lack of force. Emrys supported him until he was stable and then held the wineskin to his tender mouth. A cool burst of water trickled over his lips. His thirst was both sudden and immense. His phantom lover, however, drew the wineskin back before he could start gulping the water down and flicked his nose in a scolding manner. Emrys waited until he calmed somewhat before bringing the wineskin back to his mouth.

Arthur forced himself to slow down and take his time. He let himself be watered like a horse. He let himself be cared for. He let himself be petted and coddled until his frame grew heavy, his eyes drooping, his thirst sated and his limbs loose. He let himself be urged down and over until he was curled on his side beneath the blankets that Emrys drew up and over him. He let himself melt into the phantom arms that wrapped around him from behind and cradled him close.

That was the last thing he knew until he woke sometime later, his stomach grumbling and his mouth dry, his expression groggy. Emrys helped him up and out of the bed and into a steaming bath – where Emrys bathed him with tender care. He was soon dried and dressed and Arthur smiled dazedly, leaning into the soft kiss pressed against his mouth. He opened up immediately, sighing, warm and content as phantom hands smoothed his gleaming and somewhat fluffed hair down until it rested flat. He and Emrys spent several long moments kissing, luxuriating in each other, but Arthur withdrew eventually, his shoulders squaring and his chin rising with a warm burst of confidence. His phantom lover kissed his nose and then disappeared into the crystal concealed beneath his red tunic without prompting, offering a warm pulse of encouragement.

Arthur chose not to don his cloak this time.

He wore a long black leather coat instead. It billowed in his wake as he strode from his tent and emerged into the warm evening air, his stomach grumbling to announce its hunger again. Arthur headed for the tavern and entered the establishment quickly, smiling when the boisterous atmosphere continued despite his arrival. No one paid him an ounce of attention as he approached the counter and ordered his supper before finding himself in a vacant corner with a tankard of mead. He watched men from various realms drowning in their cups without fear, knowing he was safe now: Morgana had assured him that those who’d pose a threat to him wouldn’t recognise him no matter how often he was spotted walking around the town and tournament grounds. She and a number of Druids from Wessex had worked together to enchant those allied with Camelot and Mercia.

Arthur sipped his mead and watched the door open a moment later, a young woman and a number of musicians bustling into the tavern. She waved at the barkeep and received a warm wave in return before settling in the corner opposite Arthur, shrugging off a travelling cloak and raising a handsome lute. Her curling hair framed her freckled face as she started singing, her northern accent thick and strong, and her fingers quick and light as she strummed and plucked at the strings while her fellow musicians gathered around her. A harp, fipple flute and tambourine soon joined her.

“The Elfin Knight stands on yon hill. He blows his horn both loud and shrill. He stands so proud and he stands so still.” The travelling bard smiled as a number of northern Knights burst into cheers and raised their sloshing tankards in encouragement before joining in for a rather repetitive chorus. She started the second verse soon enough. “If I had the Knight that stands on yon mound, my true love then surely I have found. Down to the grove and soon we will be bound!”

Arthur smiled as he listened to the song, his heart warming as it reminded him of his lover, taking another sip of his mead. His eyes drifted closed as the second chorus came to an end and the bard dived into the third verse.

“He’ll make me a dress with seams of fine thread. He’ll make me a garland of flowers for my head. Down to the grove and away we’ll go: to bed!”

The bard laughed as some of the men whistled in good spirits. She soon reprised the first verse and ended her first song on another chorus before diving into another song at the behest of the man nearest her.

“Sir Eglamore was a valiant Knight - fa la lanky down dilly,” the young woman sang proudly, her voice loud and strong, her fingers plucking at the strings of her lute. “He took up his sword and he went to fight – fa la lanky down dilly. As he rode o’er hill and dale, all armoured in a coat of mail...”

Arthur muttered along, the lyrics both foreign and familiar, having heard various versions of the same tune over the years. His fingers tapped upon the table until the footsteps approached and he looked up to see Sir Tor, his scarred face smiling, expression fond as he asked whether he could join Arthur, who acquiesced at once.

An evening that began as a private meal morphed into a meal for two and a night of drinking between good friends. Arthur was soon buzzing, grinning, his whole frame warm with mead and high spirits as Sir Tor reached the same level of inebriation beside him. The two of them were singing aloud with each song performed before the night was through and were supporting each other when the barkeep ushered them out eventually, amused to no end. Arthur clung to Sir Tor, stumbling, but his friend wasn’t much better when the pair found themselves safe in his tent and tripping over themselves in the process of ripping off their boots and stockings and dropping their coats and belts before falling upon the comfortable bed together.

It was the best night he’d had in a long time.   


	57. Chapter Fifty-Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some might think the discussion in this chapter is too intense for strangers. However, from my own experience, I've found that those who've suffered in some way tend to do this. An exchange of understanding, as it were, even if the circumstances aren't quite the same. 
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think! I look forward to hearing your thoughts!

The Queen of Wessex waited for him in the same council chamber in which she’d met him when the tournament first began and stood in front of the same large windowpane as before. Arthur paused in the open doorway, watching silently, and spent a long moment wondering why; he’d realised the elder monarch had growing trouble with her vision the last time he’d encountered her. Her deteriorating vision might have even been one of the main reasons she’d been so pleased to hear he’d come to Wessex in the first place: a blind monarch would be more of a hindrance than a help when it came to ruling and protecting a nation under their banner.

Arthur supposed it wouldn’t matter in the long run. He was prepared to succeed her as soon as it suited him and the realm to do so. He would do what was best for the people depending upon him – including the current Queen of Wessex. He cleared his throat and stepped forward as Queen Wynnfrith turned slowly, her grip on her staff tightening, her wizened features now facing him. Her eyes stared through him as usual. Her mouth curled around a warm smile and she inclined her head immediately, respectfully, but was quick enough to say, “Your Majesty, I’m relieved to see you up and about after your prolonged convalescence. It was a gruelling match or so I seem to recall. Certainly, it was the longest match I’d ever been privileged to witness in recent years. I hope this afternoon has found you well.”

“I couldn’t be happier,” Arthur answered easily, his own mouth curling around a warm smile in return. It no longer bothered him that Queen Wynnfrith insisted on addressing him in such a fashion. He supposed it was better to get used to hearing the phrase directed at him now: it would become commonplace in the future he’d build with Merlin and Emrys. Confidence flooded through him from deep within as Arthur crossed the council chamber with purpose in his stride. “Thank you for inquiring, Your Majesty.”

Queen Wynnfrith moved to cross the council chamber without prompting, though her steps were as slow and measured as the last time he’d spoken with her. Her wrinkled hand found the back of the nearest chair and she pulled it out before easing herself down upon it as Arthur settled down opposite her.

“As you must remember,” Arthur continued cheerfully, his voice warm with so much pride as he remembered the final match he’d watched earlier that day, “a dear friend of mine won the tournament this morning. I’m proud of him.”

“I’m sure you are. Sir Tor is a skilled Knight and a good man – from what I’ve heard about him at least.” Queen Wynnfrith inclined her head in open respect for the man she’d awarded the winnings to that morning, though she hadn’t been able to see him. Sir Tor had been wise enough to do nothing, but accept her congratulations with a pride that had been earned and an honest sense of modesty, which had amused Arthur, who’d been watching from the stands without fear of detection. Queen Wynnfrith rested her staff against the table beside her and clapped her hands loudly, the sound rippling with a mild flare of unspoken power; a maidservant came bustling into the council chamber a minute or two later, her youthful hands burdened with a platter bearing a carafe of wine and two simple goblets. The maidservant vacated the council chamber after pouring them both a goblet and leaving the carafe on the table between them. Queen Wynnfrith continued quietly, her voice soft with kindness and warm regard. “Emrys spoke of him often when he’d come here to compete in the past. Someone who could inspire such love and devotion in such a man must be quite wonderful indeed. But I must confess to wishing I could see as well as I used to: I liked watching a good tournament when I was younger, much to the disapproval of those who came before me.”

“Your parents didn’t like hosting tournaments?”

“Not really; the pair preferred peace and harmonious living to such controlled demonstrations of violence. Tournaments would have been banned in Wessex had the two of them managed to convince the council to agree with them. But we aren’t here to discuss family, are we?” Queen Wynnfrith raised her goblet to her mouth and sipped her wine before setting the goblet back down. She folded her wizened hands upon the table and stared through him for a moment or two. “I’m assuming you have an answer to the proposition I made when we spoke last.”

“I do indeed.” Arthur folded his own hands upon the table and remained confident as he gazed at the elder monarch. He squared his shoulders and raised his chin. “I’m willing to succeed you. However, there are matters we need to discuss first.”

“Oh?”

“Firstly, I don’t want to succeed you until the winter; waiting until then will give me a grace period during which I can learn the laws of this realm and grow familiar with the various nobles here. It will also give your people time to grow accustomed to the change before the more vigorous working seasons come along. This is a condition upon which I won’t be moved.” Arthur released a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, his frame flooding with even more confidence as Emrys pulsed against his sternum. Warm encouragement rippled down through his skin and kissed his spirit within. He watched as Queen Wynnfrith inclined her head in understanding and then he continued without preamble. “Secondly, I’d like to call upon you from time to time when I need advice on matters that I’m unfamiliar with. I know Wessex will have issues both similar to and distinct from those I’ve encountered while serving the Cornish realm. I’m willing to negotiate this matter, but I do hope you’ll be amenable.”

“Your Majesty, there is no need to worry; I’d intended to remain on hand from the beginning. Mother remained as an advisor when I first ascended the throne and I’d be honoured to do the same for you now. Not that I think you’ll require much advising from me or others like me once Emrys returns to full strength. You’ll have each other then.”

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate your faith in him.” Arthur smiled warmly, knowing he wasn’t wrong when Emrys pulsed against his sternum again. He reached for his wine and took a small sip before setting the goblet back down. “I know I appreciate such faith.”

Arthur lingered in the castle for an hour, discussing potential plans for the future with the Queen of Wessex until her duties called her away, and then he vacated the castle with a spring in his step. Emrys offered another warm pulse of encouragement as he descended from the castle and meandered through the town until he found the home of Devon and his tired mother, Gelsey, who perked up at the sight of him when she answered his knock upon the door.

He’d learned her name the previous morning while visiting the apothecary, intent on finding a cure for the godforsaken drumbeat pounding against all corners of his skull – the result of overindulging at the tavern with Sir Tor. He’d stopped for a minute to chat with her just outside the door to the apothecary, her precious and delightful son nowhere in sight at the time. He’d taken a moment to look at Gelsey, truly, and had seen the weariness that lingered behind the happiness that warmed her freckled features. He’d seen the faint tremble in her frame from arising at all hours to settle or feed or change the linens Devon wore to protect his clothes from being soiled. He’d supposed that was the largest downside to becoming a new parent: having to expend so much personal reserves to care for their vulnerable and helpless offspring instead of caring for themselves.  

Arthur spent several with Devon. He spent the first two hours entertaining the child while his mother focused on overdue needlework before starting to doze in her chair, the shadows under her eyes even darker than the last time he’d met her. He spent the third hour seated in another chair as he stared down at the flaxen head nuzzling against his shoulder, small limbs loose with slumber, pink mouth slack and drooling.

One small hand curled around a miniscule fistful of his tunic.

He’d almost started dozing himself when the door burst open and someone strode through the doorway, their arrival jolting him awake in an instant. Survival instincts had him lunging out of the chair and launching himself in front of Gelsey, crushing Devon still closer with one arm and withdrawing his blade with his free hand. Steel sang a dangerous song. His heart thundered within his chest as Arthur levelled his sword at the intruder, but faltered when a startled woman two or three years younger than him dropped to one knee immediately, bowing her head in an immediate show of respect as she murmured the formal address he’d grown so accustomed to hearing over the last year. His grip slackened as her chainmail rattled and the emblems embroidered into the fabric of her surcoat came into view.

Recognition flickered through him at once: she was one of the mages working for the Queen of Wessex. He sheathed his blade and apologised instantly, another wave of recognition washing through him when familiar amber eyes flicked upwards.

Arthur flushed in embarrassment at his overreaction.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur mumbled as he held Devon out in offer, the defenceless child still sleeping despite the unexpected commotion. His stomach twisted with some discomfort when the mage rose to her feet and proved to be almost a head taller than him – an uncommon trait among women. She was lean and strong, not unlike his lover, with golden hair longer, thicker and more lustrous than his own. Currently, it was swept back in a thick braid that almost looked capable of bludgeoning someone to death. The mage drew her sleeping babe into her arms and pressed a tender kiss against his head. Arthur hastened to explain himself before she could direct even a modicum of anger in his direction. “I wasn’t expecting someone to come in like that.”

“You don’t need to apologise. I don’t blame you for reacting as you did. I’ve reacted like that more than once in the past. Our instincts scream to protect vulnerable and defenceless offspring; our bodies react to potential threats quicker than our minds recognise allies under such circumstances.” The mage strode past him even as she spoke quietly, unwilling to disturb Gelsey, and extricated her finished needlework with care. A war hammer glinted across her back. She set the needlework aside and then summoned a blanket with a muttered word before draping it over her wife. She threw a glance over her shoulder. “You can call me Viborg, Your Highness.”

Arthur blinked in surprise upon hearing one of several Scandinavian names he’d heard Leon mention while babbling about one text or another in the past and was quick to say, “But you don’t sound Scandinavian...”

“I’m sure you’re an expert on what we sound like.”

Viborg shook her head in disgust and looked away, striding across the small room to settle her child in his cradle when Devon started stirring, grumbling, reacting to the tense atmosphere growing between them. She ran a tender hand over his flaxen hair before straightening, enveloping her son with a protective bubble of strong magic that must have prevented him from sensing the tension developing around him. Devon settled back down almost immediately, his delicate limbs going limp and his face turning away, small lips parted. Viborg gripped the edge of the cradle with hands like vices. Her war hammer seemed twice as threatening now that Devon was no longer cradled against her chest – not that she wasn’t dangerous while still holding a child. Her status as a mage was more than enough reason to consider the woman dangerous and more than a potential threat should things go south. Her knuckles whitened. Viborg seemed to force herself to release the cradle before turning, some of the same ferocious steel he’d seen in his sister gleaming in her eyes now. Her magic crackled around her. Her voice was hard and sharp when she spoke next.

“I was born and raised for a time in Trøndelag, though I don’t know what town. I can’t remember. I was abducted when I was young, after watching the people I loved die while protecting me. I don’t give a damn whether I sound Scandinavian to you or not. It doesn’t change the fact that I am.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur offered again immediately, taking a step back at the knowledge that he’d opened an old wound with his thoughtless comment. He raised his hands in surrender and willed Emrys to remain docile while reactive magic continued to crackle through the room. He’d deserved the flash of anger from the mage for what he’d said. “I never meant to hurt you. I was just...”

“Being ignorant?”

“As you say,” Arthur allowed as his face heated with more than a modicum of mortification. “I have a terrible habit of speaking without thinking, but I’d heard the name mentioned a few times in the past and I knew it was Scandinavian. You have a strong local accent and that threw me off. I never paused to think of the endless list of reasons you might have been displaced and I apologise for that. I know I’ve slighted you more than I ever intended. I don’t expect you to forgive me.”

“You can stand corrected then. I do accept your apology, but I’d appreciate you taking the time in future. I have a deep respect for the beliefs and hopes the people here have and I’d rather not disillusion them because you were being a thoughtless arse while a guest in our home.” Viborg sighed and moved away, seating herself at the table with a scowl and summoning vegetables and strips of preserved meat from the cupboards. She also summoned two knives. Viborg looked at him long and hard for a moment. “If you’re going to stay, please make yourself useful and help me with these.”

Arthur seated himself opposite her at once and took one of the knives with a grateful smile. It was the least he could do after the emotional harm he’d inflicted upon the mage. Arthur started peeling, falling back on the familiar motions and remembering the countless times he’d prepared supper for his own family, his smile deepening with affection with each passing moment. Several parts of him missed the years he’d spent as a commoner, though he couldn’t fathom why, given the stress and anxieties it had instilled within him over the course of his life.

“You aren’t the first to mistake me for a local.” Arthur paused and glanced up to see the mage topping and tailing a carrot with an alarming amount of vigour. Viborg spoke roughly, her fair eyebrows sharp with anger over her long, thin nose. She looked at him in return. Her mouth twisted. “I should be used to it and I’m not. I’ve been told I have anger issues. I suppose you can attest to that.”

“You aren’t alone on that score.” Arthur looked down at the parsnip in his hand. He started chopping the vegetable into small pieces. “I lash out as well – sometimes without just cause as you did. Mostly, however, I’m an anxious fool. We all have to battle our own demons in life.”

“You aren’t wrong,” Viborg muttered in answer less than a moment later, returning to her own vegetables as well. Several moments of relative silence stretched between them before she spoke to him again. It was just as abrupt and unexpected as the first time. “I heard you’re a refugee. Is that true?”

“I suppose I am. Some people would consider me a criminal instead and I wouldn’t refute that claim. I did break the law. But I was indeed forced to flee the realm I’d been born and raised in. I was forced to leave the place and people I consider home in order to escape certain death.” Arthur spoke bluntly, unwilling to fall apart at the recollection. He wasn’t trapped in the same state of despair he’d been in a year ago and he wasn’t going to return to that state. He had reasons to be cheerful now and he wasn’t going to let them go – no matter what. But his solid resolve didn’t prevent his heart from pounding within his chest. “I know the circumstances aren’t the same as what happened to you...but I do know what it feels like to be displaced. I know what it feels like to be torn from those I love. I still consider myself a Camelote despite the time I’ve spent in Cornwall. I’m not sure I’ll ever stop considering myself a Camelote.”

Arthur and Viborg shared a strained moment of kinship before looking away, neither of them willing to expound further yet. He focused on the tasks at hand until the stew was simmering in the pot over the fire she’d started with a muttered word. Devon started to stir again and Arthur had to refrain from going to the cradle. It wasn’t his job. He watched Viborg greet her son instead and then looked away, feeling like an interloper. He wondered whether it would be better to just leave. He must have overstepped his welcome at this point. Arthur started fiddling with his ancestral ring and then stood abruptly, his nerves in anxious knots.

“Sit back down.” Viborg gave him a sharp look even as Arthur followed the command without thinking, accustomed as he was to responding to an authoritative voice. He flushed in embarrassment. Viborg frowned at him in bewilderment and then looked at the babe in her arms. Her arms tightened around Devon. “I’ve been told he likes you. He doesn’t like many, so you can’t be that intolerable. You can hold him.”

Arthur didn’t have a chance to utter a word before Devon was planted in his arms again and his anxieties melted away, his nerves calming as small hands patted at his face with familiar enthusiasm.

“It must be strange to know you’re destined for ruling, when following commands comes to you with such familiar ease.” Viborg didn’t look at him as she loosened the harness keeping her war hammer strapped to her back and sent it away, her magic rippling at her command. Her surcoat and hauberk followed suit – as did her gambeson. Her tunic bore sweat stains where she’d overheated beneath the chainmail. “Did you ever imagine yourself in such a position?”

“I never dared to imagine it. I was raised as a commoner, though I knew what had been stolen from me when Bayard usurped the throne of Camelot. I was under the tight constraints of several unjust and hateful laws. I never dared to imagine being in such a position until I met the Crown Prince of Camelot and Mercia.” His beaming smile faltered as he focused upon Viborg instead of Devon. His heart clenched in his chest. Devon squirmed in his arms and uttered a noise of irritation as his attention shifted. Two small hands started pushing at his face in an open demand for attention. Arthur continued regardless. “I fell in love with a man I wasn’t permitted to love. For so long, I never even dared to imagine he might love me in return – never mind the notion of becoming his consort and ruling beside him. He was the one that instilled me with such dreams and hopes. I’d given up hoping for a future until I met him.”

Viborg faltered when he fell silent and looked askance at him. Something akin to compassion flickered across her features for a moment and then the mage turned her face away, muttering, “I understand what you mean. I was...constrained for years after I was brought to Albion. I was a collared practitioner bound to the will of roaming slave traders that targeted me for the power flowing through me. I did what I was told to. I didn’t have a choice. For so long, I never dared to imagine a life without that collar until one of the seers working for the Queen of Wessex woke from a vision of the slavers using me to raid a village in their realm. Her Majesty led a team of mages to protect the village and liberated me from their clutches herself. I was fifteen years old. I was brought here and the collar was removed. Her Majesty gave me a place to live when she learned I had no home or kin to return to. She offered me a place among the ranks and it was the first time...in a long time...that I could choose whether I wanted to follow a command or not. It was overwhelming. I realised I had an enormous debt in that moment. I still do.”

“I don’t think human compassion is meant to work that way,” Arthur answered quietly, his voice soft with kindness. He gazed at the mage for a long moment. “She helped you because it was the right thing to do.”

Viborg shrugged and offered no further answer, the silence stretching between them in an almost comfortable manner now that some measure of understanding existed between the pair of them. Arthur focused his attention upon the growing babe in his arms instead of the woman now letting down her hair, the locks of which fell down in lustrous waves to frame her face. He smiled at the small boy, his heart warming, his heartache fading as Devon grinned with his amber eyes and patted at his face in contentment again. He was no longer squirming or voicing his discontent with being ignored. Arthur turned his face and pressed a kiss against the palm of his small hand. He let himself imagine holding his own child one day, their bright blue eyes vibrant with unrestrained joy, so much like their father.

He wanted that so much.

Arthur was relieved to know Merlin did as well – or at least he used to want it enough to create sketches of Arthur swollen with their child. His lover might want such a thing still. He looked forward to finding out one day, to broaching the subject of children with him once he and Merlin tied the knot. He looked forward to taking whatever potion or enchantment that would facilitate the growth of their child. He looked forward to being pinned to their shared bed beneath his future husband and being filled with seed until there was room for nothing but conception. He almost looked forward to the resultant aches and pains and nausea when he thought about going through them with Merlin at his side. He almost looked forward to having swollen ankles. The urge to have children was a strange thing, Arthur concluded immediately, if it could make such dreadful things seem almost desirable.

A sudden thought struck him then and he looked up.

“When couples that share the same true sex beget a child together, does the partner that sired the child get to witness the birth?” Arthur flushed with a modicum of embarrassment as Viborg arched an eyebrow at him while running a brush through the long locks of her hair. But he ploughed on regardless of his growing discomfort. He needed to know. “Or must that half of the partnership remain outside like fathers in a traditional marriage?”

“Are you asking about women who beget a child together or men? I’ll admit that I witnessed _his_ birth with ease. But I should say, however, that I wouldn’t have listened even if someone had attempted to keep me from them. I believe being present for the birth lends them strength during their labour and then helps them through their recovery, but that is what I believe. I’m not an expert on such matters and I never will be.”

“Have you ever known men that had children together?” Normally, the earnestness with which he stared at Viborg would have embarrassed him somewhat. However, he couldn’t afford to crumble under such embarrassment now. It was important to discuss such matters while he had the chance. He didn’t want to discover the truth of the matter when he was going into labour one day, only to have Merlin kept from his side because of some stupid tradition or superstition. Arthur drew in a calming breath and then went on to say, “I knew two such men in Camelot. But I couldn’t have asked such a question without risking so much. It was forbidden for me to even contemplate having children and asking such questions would have raised suspicion from the King, whose tolerance for me was...limited at best. He’d have realised that the relationship I shared with his nephew wasn’t quite platonic and he’d have lashed out in some way, at me or those I loved. Those I still love even after spending two years without them.”

“He sounds like a bastard.”

“You’re not wrong,” Arthur answered immediately, voicing words similar to the ones the mage had uttered earlier. He cuddled Devon even closer, taking comfort in the warmth and softness of his skin and the enthusiastic noises bubbling out of him. He remembered what it was like to live with such a bastard. Arthur, however, did his best to remain calm and keep his tone light despite the subject matter as he pressed kisses all over the plump cheeks in front of him. He smiled as Devon giggled and tangled his small hands in his hair, tugging with almost negligible force at the moment. “Living in that castle was a nightmare. The Crown Prince was a burst of warm sunshine in comparison. He was and still is ten times the man his uncle is. It was no wonder that I fell in love with him.”

“You should just kill the bastard and be done with it.” Viborg managed to look ferocious even with her hair down and her weapon cast aside. Her magic crackled around her all over again. Arthur was just glad it wasn’t because of something he’d done. “You’ll never know what might happen otherwise. Life is too short and full of too much risk to spend your life waiting, waiting for the right circumstances to fall in your lap. You have to create the right circumstances. No one else can do it for you.”

Arthur almost choked on a bitter burst of laughter, wishing life could be that simple and that problems could be solved with such overwhelming ease. He wished he could just march on Camelot now and be done with waiting, with planning, with fearing the worst while he gained strength and stamina with each training session and wisdom and knowledge with each council meeting he attended. He wished he didn’t have to go to such lengths in order to spend the rest of his life with the man he loved. Briefly, Arthur allowed himself to imagine a world without the King of Camelot and Mercia. He allowed himself to imagine a world where he could meet Merlin in some flowering grove at springtime and tie the knot at last in front of their dearest friends and family, glowing with happiness and vibrating with so much love.

He and Merlin had an eternal love just waiting to be celebrated.

“That is what I’m doing,” Arthur answered eventually, his shoulders squaring and his chin lifting. Devon squirmed and complained in his arms. It didn’t matter. He levelled a firm stare at Viborg, who stared at him curiously, her ferociousness ebbing as one moment stretched into another as Arthur considered each word that dropped from his tongue. “I’m creating the circumstances through which I can act. Ascending the throne of this realm is part of the plan I’ve devised. I’ll expand that seat of power with each month that passes – through alliances and other means. Bayard hated me because he saw me as a threat and I’m going to show him what kind of threat I can be when I’ve amassed enough strength. He’ll be surrounded. He’ll have no choice but to surrender or die. I hope he’ll choose wisely, and surrender, but I doubt he’ll do so. Bayard is a proud bastard that would never kneel to a Pendragon.”

“You’re a Pendragon?” Viborg blinked in surprise and then started staring, her expression unnerved. “I didn’t know that. No one speaks your name here. People just use that stupid title.”

“I wish I wasn’t.” Arthur offered the mage a somewhat strained smile and turned his face away, taking a short moment or two to soothe Devon. He ran a gentle hand over flaxen hair. “Unfortunately, the name has been ensorcelled. I can’t be mentioned in conversation unless I’ve been introduced to the people speaking of me. It was designed to limit the number of people that could gossip and send messages about me without the consent of the King; he knew the Queen of Cornwall would tear him to shreds the moment word of me reached that realm and her brother lost control of her. It was a clever precaution and it worked for almost three decades. Fortunately, I found someone strong enough to spread word regardless and I ended up in Cornwall at last.”

Devon distracted him from the conversation then when he made an odd noise.

Arthur looked at the child in surprise and noticed the faint red tinge to his face as his small frame tightened. The tension in his small frame accompanied a growing odour that wasn’t pleasant in the least. Sudden realisation flickered through Arthur, who offered the child to Viborg less than a moment later. He blushed as the mage laughed and rose from her chair, taking her son from him with practiced ease.

Viborg crossed the room and set Devon down on a much smaller table as Arthur rose from his chair curiously, hesitating silently, wanting to see a demonstration and knowing it would be improper to just walk over to watch her change the linens.

“You want to be a father someday, yes?” Viborg glanced over her shoulder to see him nodding and then beckoned him closer. Arthur scrambled to do as commanded and found himself standing next to her, watching her unlace the small trousers with hands that were calm and steady, her son giggling all the while and drooling over his hand. Amber eyes sparkled up at them both. Viborg spoke softly, but confidently, explaining one thing or another as Arthur listened raptly, watching her untie the knot securing the linen around that small rump and groin. His face wrinkled at the smell and wrinkled even more at the sight waiting for them. A murmured spell eradicated the worst from the swath of linen as she set it aside and summoned another, along with a cloth and basin. Another spell filled the basin with water and then heated it. Viborg rolled up the sleeve of her tunic until her elbow showed. “Our offspring can’t handle the temperatures we can tolerate. Their skin is extra sensitive and will scald easily, so you have to test the water before subjecting them to it. I’ll give you a demonstration. Watch me.”

Arthur watched her dip her elbow in the water without question. Frowning, Viborg adjusted the temperature with yet another muttered spell and then dipped her elbow once more. The mage hummed in approval and looked at Arthur, her expression turning severe as she went on to explain quietly, “The water you use can’t be too frigid either; our offspring are susceptible to quick changes of temperature and can catch a chill in an instant. You must swaddle the infant as soon you take them from the water, carefully pat their bodies dry, and then you must swap the damp towel for a blanket and cradle them against you for at least ten minutes to help them restore their core temperature. The repercussions of failure are serious. I learned that the hard way, Your Highness. Gelsey and I almost lost Devon within the first month because I wasn’t careful enough after giving him a bath.”

Arthur drained of colour and looked down as Devon tried to suckle on the small toes of his adorable foot with enviable amount of flexibility, those amber eyes sparkling, and drool glistening on his small chin. Viborg went back to work and dipped the cloth into the basin. She started cleansing his small rump with practiced ease – one hand caught both ankles as Devon started to kick vigorously, bright peals of laughter escaping him almost without end.

Devon squirmed on the table and waved his hands.

Viborg smiled down at her vulnerable son.

Arthur focused on his breathing, doing his best not to start thinking, thinking of an endless list of circumstances in which he could harm an infant without meaning to. His frame tensed. His skin broke out in a cold sweat. His stomach started knotting and Arthur took an immediate step away, losing control of his breathing, his throat constricting. His heart clenched in his chest and then Devon gave a distressed cry, his happiness fading abruptly, his face darkening as fat tears surged forth. Arthur scrambled back another step at the sound and then another, and another, his heart hammering, before bumping into the kitchen table.

One of the knives clattered to the floor.

Arthur might have bolted from the house but for the gentle hand that touched his arm. His head whipped around to see Gelsey, the young woman frowning, her expression growing more concerned with each passing moment. Her gentle hands urged him to sit down before she pressed a palm to his brow to check for a fever. It was her careful ministrations that coaxed him back to some measure of calm and Arthur found himself breathing, drawing in one shaking breath after another, staring at Devon as his distressed tears faded to discontented grumbling.

Viborg looked askance at him as she set the cloth aside and then dried the small rump with a muttered spell before settling the fresh linen beneath him. She beckoned him closer again.

Arthur, his chest still heaving, hesitated before crossing the room again and watching her demonstrate the folding of the linen and the required knot before undoing it and suggesting he have a go. His heart still hammering, Arthur stared down at Devon and focused on the task at hand as Viborg leaned close enough to say, “I hope you’ll forgive me for causing such alarm and distress. It wasn’t what I intended. It seems like we’ve both made a mistake today, Your Highness.”

“You don’t need to apologise.” Arthur shook his head and looked askance at the mage even as his hands worked from memory; he’d been quick to pick up practical skills when he was a child and he wasn’t much different now. Emrys offered a warm pulse of encouragement and it sank down beneath his skin to kiss the spirit dwelling within. Arthur straightened almost imperceptibly, his hands growing more confident as he secured the knot at least and reached for the small trousers. He even managed a smile as Devon started resisting, his small and strong legs kicking, unwilling to be dressed again. He captured the ankles with the same move he’d seen Viborg execute and fumbled briefly, but soon had Devon immobilised from his plump thighs downward. He slipped the trousers on with some effort. “I have an awful habit of imagining scenarios that haven’t yet happened and growing distressed. I’m to blame.”

Viborg shook her head and said nothing, running a critical eye over his actions before nodding and nudging him aside. She swept Devon into her arms without a word and dropped the soiled linen and cloth in the basin. Another muttered spell heated the water until it began steaming, soaking the fabric to loosen the filth. Obviously, one of them would attend to the washing later; perhaps after supper. Viborg gestured for him to sit back down and then greeted Gelsey, pressing a warm kiss against her cheek and earning a beaming smile in the process.

Arthur looked away, once again feeling like an interloper, but the women soon joined him at the table and a quiet discussion was opened to tide them over until supper.


	58. Chapter Fifty-Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, folks.
> 
> Warning: This chapter has some heavy themes. 
> 
> As always, feel free to let me know what you think!

Arthur met Sir Tor the following morning, the pair of them preparing for their separate travels. He admired the blue cloak that swept to the side with the breeze for a moment and stepped forward hesitantly, his heart aching, not wanting to part with his dearest friend again. He wasn’t sure when he’d see Sir Tor in person next. Seeing him through the surface of a mirror just wouldn’t be the same. Arthur glanced around him to ensure their conversation remained private and then looked at Sir Tor, memorising each inch of that scarred face and murmuring, “I wish you could come with me. I don’t want to be without you again.”

“I feel the same way,” Sir Tor answered quietly, reaching out and touching his cheek with trembling fingers. Arthur reached up and drew the hand still closer, allowing the warm palm to cradle his cheek in full. His eyes drifted closed for a long moment as Arthur soaked up the available affection while he had the chance to do so. Sir Tor drew him closer without an ounce of hesitation and pressed their brows together, the pair of them sharing a tremulous breath as their impending separation loomed nearer. A dozen different emotions surged through him as Sir Tor continued to speak. “But I can’t leave His Highness. He needs me – to be strong, and keep a look out in his absence. Someone needs to make sure his people don’t get caught before crossing the border to find you.”

“I know.” Arthur swallowed thickly, biting back the strangled sob that rose in his throat as his vision blurred. Resolve flooded through him less than a moment later. Arthur blinked his vision clear and withdrew enough to meet his gaze. “Will you do something for me? Or at least try, if you have the chance?”

“I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”

“Tell Merlin that I’ve never stopped loving him. Tell him that I haven’t forgotten him for even a moment and that I never will. Tell him that I’m doing the best I can to bring us back together before too long. Tell him to hold that powerful faith inside him until I return and then we can restore what Bayard took from us. Tell him that we’ll build our future one day, and then give him this for me.” Arthur fisted the red doublet in front of him immediately, using both hands to haul the Knight closer, and then kissed him with a ferociousness that almost made the man stumble back a step. Sir Tor gasped against his mouth and Arthur took immediate advantage. One moment passed and then another, and another, the more experienced Knight melting, strong hands clutching at him with familiar desperation as the wet sounds of their kiss sent shivers of pleasure down his spine. Arthur broke the kiss and stepped back when breathing became difficult. He ran the back of his hand across his mouth before looking at Sir Tor, the pair of them breathing heavy, and that scarred face flushed with no small amount of passion. His eyes were dark with familiar desire. His face flushing, and his mouth somewhat bruised and tender from kissing, Arthur looked away, murmuring, “Thank you for being so willing; you have no idea how much I appreciate it.”

“Actually, I think I have some idea.” Sir Tor spoke hoarsely, a minute tremble rippling through his hand as he brushed his hair out of his face. His flush deepening, Arthur looked at him again and smiled hesitantly, his emotions a churning ocean inside him. He reached for him then and Sir Tor came immediately, drawing him against his chest. Strong arms wound around him beneath his own pristine white cloak. He pressed his face against that warm neck and sighed heavily, taking the comfort offered. Sir Tor sighed against his scalp. “Do you need me to do anything else?”

“Just be careful.”

“When have I ever _not_ been careful?”

“Remember that time you and Ninianne went after me in the banquet hall?” Arthur drew away, smiling, the recollection warming him despite the tense interaction with King Bayard that had followed some moments later. Sir Tor made a face at the reminder. Arthur chuckled lightly, his hands resting against the red doublet in front of him and appreciating the softness against his sensitive skin. He stepped forward again and pressed a tender kiss against the corner of his mouth. He was rewarded with a warm smile a moment before he pressed another tender kiss and then another, Sir Tor turning his face a fraction and drawing him deeper, their kiss soft and lingering, warm with endless affection. Arthur sighed as he drew back. “I hope you know that one was for you.”

“I might have guessed.”

“Is that so?” Arthur couldn’t help smiling even brighter, his tumultuous emotions calming, welcoming the jovial tone Sir Tor used now as he lingered close. One large hand ran along the curve of his back in a soothing line. His own arms slid up and around strong shoulders to emphasise the teasing moment growing between them. “Aren’t you presumptuous?”

“Very,” Sir Tor agreed immediately, his arms tightening around him. He pressed their brows together again and smiled warmly, his mouth reddened from kissing. He sighed once more. “I’m going to miss you.”

“I’ll miss you as well.” Arthur lingered for a moment and then drew away, knowing that lingering much longer would just make parting more difficult. He squared his shoulders against the emotions churning anew inside him and raised his chin. Emrys pulsed against his sternum in warm encouragement. “I meant what I said earlier: be careful. I couldn’t bear to see you harmed for helping us.”

“I’ll be as careful as I can be.” Sir Tor stood solemn before Arthur, his utterance a most sincere vow. He gripped his shoulder with a firm hand and squeezed just so. “I won’t let you down on that. Keep your mirror close. I’ll let you know whether I’ve managed to pass on your message to His Highness. Go on now: you should leave before either of us gets distracted again.”

Arthur nodded firmly, and turned away, the shield of magic keeping their farewell private dissolving around him and revealing his companions and their waiting mounts. He strode across the grass and swung himself up into the saddle behind the young witch that would ride with him. He gripped the reins and took one last glance at Sir Tor.

Sir Tor stood watching, his blue cloak catching in the wind all over again. It swept to the side and billowed regally, emphasising his Knighthood. His hands tightened around the reins as Sir Tor raised a hand in farewell. Swallowing thickly, Arthur turned his face away, snapping the reins at once. Hecate broke into a gallop immediately, her powerful wings flaring and beating, propelling them into the air.

He didn’t look back.

He couldn’t.

He focused on calming his emotions instead and stared at the sky, the vast stretch of beautiful blue decorated with clouds as white as snow. Hecate soared higher, the beat of her wings comforting, and Arthur breathed easier. It wouldn’t be long until he was back in Cornwall and speaking to his aunt. He’d continue as Crown Prince of Cornwall until the winter, whereupon he’d return to Dorchester to be crowned first as Crown Prince of Wessex and then he’d ascend the throne when Queen Wynnfrith abdicated in his favour.

Arthur wondered whether Merewald would come to witness his coronation as an official guest of Wessex. He wondered whether she’d accept an invite to the occasion. He also wondered whether she’d be proud to see him crowned thusly, though he should have succeeded her instead. He knew he’d ascend the throne of Cornwall in time – whenever Merewald chose to abdicate in his favour or in the event of her passing away, whichever came first.

He didn’t like to think about it much.

Merewald had several decades left in her, Arthur knew, though his aunt claimed that she’d done all she could with the realm dwelling under her banner. He’d respect and support whatever his aunt chose to do with her crown in the years to come.

He continued to ponder such things as the miles stretching between them and Dorchester grew. He almost lost himself to such thoughts. He might have done so were it not for the warmth of his hippogriff and the presence of Ninianne in front of him.

Tintagel Castle came into view almost as soon as the afternoon arrived. His face brightened around a beaming smile at the sight stretching out below them. Sparkling waves rolled under the warm sunshine bursting across the sky and stretches of sand almost glowed as the water rumbled below. Several of their ships glided across the water. Gulls drifted lazily, screeching, before swooping low with their white wings spread.

Arthur directed Hecate to do the same with a tug of the reins. Hecate did so immediately, banking down low and alighting upon the cliffs with an elated trill. She slowed her canter to a walk and then stopped completely, her powerful and impressive wings folding, tucking themselves tight against her muscular frame.

The other hippogriffs landed not too far away, releasing their own distinct trills.

Arthur dismounted with ease and helped Ninianne down from the saddle at once. He brushed a hand over her copper hair and then nudged her away, his expression softening as she started heading over to the castle with a delighted spring in her step. Ninianne didn’t look back even once. Arthur knew she’d missed her parents a great deal since she’d left Tintagel.

“That girl is a delight.”

“I know that.” Arthur looked askance at his sister, who stood as tall and proud as he’d learned to stand over the last year. Freya stood on the other side of her, her hair windswept and her expression somewhat disgruntled after their flight. Arthur stroked his hand over raven feathers and allowed an amused smirk to curl his mouth. “Don’t tell me you’re tempted to bring her with you when you go back to Essetir?”

“Can you blame me?” Morgana laughed and shook her head. Several tendrils of raven hair had come loose from the braid hanging between her shoulder blades: it was one of the downsides of flight. One whispered spell had her hair pristine and perfect in an instant. “I know she wouldn’t come. Ninianne would rather remain with you and I can see why; she cares about you a great deal. But she’ll be a powerful witch someday, Arthur, and she’d make a great Priestess of the Old Religion.”

“I have no control over that.” Arthur shook his head and seized the reins before leading Hecate away, throwing another brief glance at Morgana. She fell into step beside him – as did Freya on her other side. His mouth curled around a warm smile as he thought about his young ward. “But I’ll support whatever decision she makes in the future. Her path is for her to choose. Currently, she seems set on becoming an archer and perhaps a Knight as well. She’d like to ride a hippogriff whenever she wants to.”

Morgana laughed again and touched his arm lightly, saying, “Reason enough for someone to become a Knight of the Realm. Personally, I could imagine no other reason to become one. I’d much prefer to remain as a mage: using magic has become such a large part of me over the years.”

“Are you suggesting you wouldn’t like to be like me when you’re older?” Arthur arched an eyebrow at her, his smile morphing into another amused smirk. “I’ll have you know I’m an excellent role model!”

Morgana swatted his arm and Arthur swatted her in return immediately, a warm burst of laughter escaping them in the same instant. He wondered whether this was how their childhood would have been had their father never been killed and had been given the chance to acknowledge Morgana as their kin. He doubted it somewhat. Either way, Arthur was glad to have Morgana in his life now. It didn’t matter what their other lives would have been like had their father lived longer. What mattered was the life he and Morgana were leading now. What mattered was the bond growing between them now that he and his sister were giving each other a chance despite their disastrous first meeting.

That meeting wasn’t something he often recollected.

Doing so made him feel guilty, as though Arthur were sneaking around behind Merlin and treating with the enemy, though he knew the man he loved would come to understand in time. Nothing mattered more than helping those still living, especially when it came to family; Ninianne meant the world to Merlin. He’d come to understand. Arthur wrapped his hands around that confidence and stowed it away, his spine straightening as he handed Hecate over to one of the grooms waiting. He looked at his sister once more and asked quietly, “When do you plan to return?”

“I’m not certain about that. However, I should think it’ll be soon enough.” Morgana frowned and walked beside him as Arthur headed away, her high spirits easing somewhat. Her shoulders fell. “I’ve heard nothing to the contrary, so Morgause should be quite far along now. I’d like to be there for her when the time comes. She’ll need me at her side: Lot is a rough fool without an ounce of tact. I’m not even sure why she married him.”

“People make the oddest decisions for the sake of love.” Arthur chuckled quietly, but continued looking on ahead as he and Morgana and their armed companions mounted the steps leading into the castle at last. It was wonderful to feel the familiar stones pressing against the soles of his boots. His chin raised a fraction higher as the sentries bowed their heads and murmured their respectful greetings. He glanced at Morgana. “You should be glad she didn’t fall for someone even worse than Lot. I imagine you’d have lost your patience for her husband much sooner had that been the case. At least some fools are tolerable to a certain degree.”

“I’m just relieved Lot voted in favour of repealing Prima Nocta. Not that he’d have lasted long as her husband had he voted to keep that outrageous law in place. She’d have gutted him in an instant.” Morgana spoke with increasing confidence regarding her sister and the man she’d married. A wicked chuckle escaped her. Morgana looked askance at Arthur, who arched an eyebrow in mild question. “Prima Nocta was one of the first laws repealed when Morgause ascended the throne.”

“I’m sure countless people across the realm were relieved to hear the news.” Arthur dipped his head in a show of respect for the Queen of Essetir and the council she would have chosen upon winning the throne from Cenred in the arena. Her people must have celebrated for weeks. “Such laws are disgusting and barbaric. Could you imagine being a subject of King Cenred during such a horrendous time? Merlin and I would never marry, if we’d lived there. I’d rather live in sin than leave one or both of us face such a nightmare.”

“Unfortunately, that isn’t an option for some people.” Outrage hardened her features when Arthur glanced at Morgana. Her long stride exuded thick waves of anger that were so much more than justified. “I find it appalling that women are denied the same liberties men often take for granted. Living in sin would lead a common woman to a public shaming in countless realms across Albion. Noblewomen earn ruined reputations!”

“That won’t be true for long,” Arthur assured her quietly, stopping Morgana where their paths would soon divide. Her muscles were tight with her anger beneath his gentle hand. He met her hard stare without hesitation. “I’ll bring an end to that as soon as possible.”

“Not all things change with law.” Morgana spoke just as quietly, fire burning in her eyes. Her jaw clenched with her anger. Her nostrils flared. Her hands curled into fists. “You know that just as well as I do.”

“Unfortunately, but laws do provide a stable foundation upon which a culture can be developed. We must start from the beginning, Morgana. You and I both know an attitude is a stubborn thing, but change is possible. We have to make room for that change. We have to lead the way, no matter how daunting or fruitless it might seem. Growth starts with us.”

“As you say, dear brother,” Morgana allowed after a brief moment of contemplation. Her eyes continued to burn with anger, however, and now a dozen other emotions as well. She inhaled sharply, her strong and slender shoulders squaring, and then went on to say, “I’ll be holding you to your intentions. Just so you know.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

“Good.”

“Join me for supper,” Arthur suggested warmly, his expression softening with kind regard. “I need to visit Her Majesty, but I’d like to see the pair of you again later, if neither of you mind. I intend to invite a few others as well.”

“Thank you for the offer; I’ll send word when we’ve reached a decision.” Morgana and Freya shared a brief glance and then the latter woman looked away, her disgruntlement easing somewhat. His sister looked at him once more. “Go on: I’m sure the Queen is missing you something fierce. I’d hate to keep her waiting, Arthur.”

Arthur smiled brightly, inclined his head in farewell and went on his way, aware that Morgana and her maidservant would be taking some time for themselves. He knew having Ninianne around at almost all hours would have constrained them to some degree. Some discussions just couldn’t be had around a child. Some moments couldn’t be had in front of them either, though he wasn’t certain Morgana and Freya shared such a bond at all. He’d thought the pair might at times. He’d witnessed a glance or two over the past few months that discomfited him somewhat and made him feel like he’d been intruding, though he’d acknowledged the feeling rarely, knowing it wasn’t his business then. He and Morgana hadn’t been close enough for him to care much about her romances.

He wasn’t daring enough to inquire about it now.

His sister was a ferocious woman and he wouldn’t risk poking his head into her privacy, no matter how much he wanted to know whether Morgana had someone significant at her side or someone waiting for her in Essetir.

Certainly, Morgana was protective of Freya and yet that still wasn’t an indicator, as he himself wanted to protect the woman at times. He had no interest in her, not in that way, though he knew Freya had her own charms. Her quiet resilience was one of them. Her smile was another; Arthur often found himself chasing the chance to make her smile. Freya needed reason to smile more often. He just wasn’t the person destined to spend the rest of their existence doing so.

Arthur also knew that Morgana had been one of several mages that had helped tear down a dangerous hunting ring in Essetir, arriving on the scene in the middle of an unlawful and immoral hunt. Freya had been bound in cold iron at the time and had been running, and stumbling, choking on tears as she’d raced through the forest. Hounds had howled and barked and chased after her – all because the poor woman had been considered a magical beast worth hunting when her curse had been discovered after a man had triggered it in a tavern. She hadn’t had a chance to flee from the town before she’d been caught that evening, tackled to the ground and trapped in cold iron before the beast within could even react to her surging emotions.

Arthur could imagine the rage that would have stormed through his sister, who’d have torn through the hunters without an ounce of mercy, armed with steel and powerful magic. He could also imagine the terror that must have coursed through Freya.

Just hearing the account while he’d been convalescing in Dorchester had sent his stomach churning and his heart racing wildly, his skin breaking out in a cold sweat on her behalf. He’d stared at Freya for a long moment as she’d avoided looking at him in return and had then looked at his sister, who’d been shaking with remembered rage. Morgana had announced that all those who’d failed to taste the edge of her blade had been executed in the citadel at the command of Queen Morgause of Essetir, who’d not been lenient on the nobleman in charge of the hunting party, no matter how much he’d argued about the curse altering her status as a person. She’d made an example of him instead and the other nobles of the realm had flinched at the severity, even as she’d promised that such cruel hunts would no longer be tolerated in Essetir.

Queen Morgause wasn’t to be trifled with.

It was no wonder that Freya served Morgana so faithfully, after what she and her sister had done to free her from such a dreadful situation. He’d have been as devoted had Merlin rescued him from such horrendous torment.

Honestly, he was that devoted already, and for much less substantial reasons. His continued kindness had been enough to earn his faith from almost the beginning, though Arthur had been reluctant to admit it at first. Despite being a Crown Prince now and destined for ruling, Arthur knew he would still kneel before Merlin in a heartbeat. He’d still offer his servitude and devotion as soon as Merlin asked it of him. He’d even do it without being asked at all.

But he knew he couldn’t – at least not in the public eye.

Privately, Arthur could follow commands as often as he wanted and devote himself to pleasing his lover, but he’d have to constrain his devotion in public. He couldn’t behave like a servant when others expected a ruler.

Part of him longed for the years he’d spent serving his former master. He longed for the pleased twinkle in his eye and the approving curl of his mouth whenever Arthur accomplished a task to the best of his ability, not to mention the ardour with which his former master would drive him up against the walls of his bedchamber and whisper all the sinful things that made him shiver with so much want and need. Things that made him look away, his face flaming, even as his hands had clutched at fine clothes and his manhood had twitched where it was pressed against an authoritative thigh. He’d often known that sinful commands danced upon the tip of that tongue as warm breath ghosted across his sensitive skin. Merlin had trapped and pinned him so often that Arthur had known it was something that gave him some sense of pleasure even as it tormented them both. He’d known Merlin wanted to trap him against something else entirely, something neither of them quite dared to imagine despite the frequent whispered promises made to each other. He’d known Merlin had been as awed at the chance of making love to him for the first time as Arthur had been.

Arthur could still remember the warmth of those hands and the strength of that magic as Merlin had carried him across the house and laid him down on that miserable excuse for a bed. He could still remember the weight of that gaze as Merlin realised he had him right where he’d wanted him for so long: naked and eager, trembling with desire. He’d been so nervous when Merlin kissed and caressed him that night. He’d wanted their first and last night together to be perfect. He’d wanted to please his master, his lover, the man who’d give him the world.

He’d wanted to be so good.

He still wanted to be good.

Shaking his head for some clarity, Arthur knocked upon a familiar door and waited for permission before stepping through to see Merewald seated at her writing desk. She was reading through some paperwork and making notes as she went along, frowning and studious. Arthur closed the door and waited patiently, waited for his aunt to look up and see him waiting, waiting to be invited nearer. He didn’t want to disturb her while she looked so studious. It was best to leave her work until she’d finished. He refrained from fiddling with his ancestral ring. He stood tall and proud instead as he remembered how well he’d performed in the tournament despite his inexperience and his immense fear of facing his childhood tormentor again. He didn’t think about that last match. He thought about nothing but his fair triumphs.

Arthur was almost bursting with the need to discuss the tournament with Merewald and hear the pride in her voice. He also needed to return her miniature shield. Surely, he should have his own once he became the King of Wessex. He’d not be able to use the Cornish emblems then. He’d be adorned with the golden wyvern then or perhaps he’d shift to the golden dragon from his own line. Arthur was ashamed to be associated with his father, but Uther Pendragon was an aberration. He didn’t epitomize the whole Pendragon clan.

Arthur would reclaim the name and make it wholesome. He’d help the people see that not all Pendragons were like his father. He’d show them that most weren’t like him at all. He’d make his ancestors proud again – including Queen Artura Pendragon. His frame warmed at the thought of his ancestor, who’d fallen while defending her citadel. His veins thrummed with the assurance that noble and moral Pendragons had existed before and would do so again.

He and Morgana wouldn’t be the last of their kind.

He’d make sure of that.

“Did you need something,” Merewald asked eventually, not even pausing to glance up at her visitor, “or are you just going to stand there and stare at me like a sheep? I don’t have much time for timidity, you know.”

“I was hoping for a hug, but you looked busy,” Arthur answered easily, smiling, his heart warming when the sound of his voice made her gaze snap upwards. She was coming around the writing desk less than a moment later, her work abandoned in an instant. The wind was knocked out of him when Merewald ploughed into him. “I missed you too.”

“You never said when you were coming back!” Merewald drew back enough to grip his shoulders with both hands and her gaze searched his face. Her grip tightened a fraction. Her smile was almost bright enough to eclipse the sun. Merewald hauled him into another tight embrace and Arthur smiled warmly, returning the embrace just as tightly, soaking up the affection on offer while he had the chance. “I’d become resigned to you staying in Wessex after the tournament!”

“I still have duties to oversee here.” Arthur drew away, his hands resting on her upper arms. Her purple tunic was warm and soft to the touch. Merewald turned and ushered him to the chair he often sat in while visiting during work hours. He settled down as commanded and Merewald squeezed his hand for a moment before returning to her own chair, pushing her work aside so she could focus upon Arthur. Her gaze grew intense as Arthur continued speaking, his voice confident as Emrys pulsed against his sternum. “I need to train someone to take them over when I leave as well. I have a few people in mind already, but I wanted to discuss the matter with you first.”

“Naturally, but I’d rather discuss the tournament right now.” Merewald offered an encouraging smile as she leaned forward in her chair, her eyes sparkling with interest. “How did you fare in the end? I know you were worried about competing, Arthur.”

 Arthur discussed the tournament openly, beginning with his nerves before his first match. He discussed the first match at length and looked away, hiding his smile as a prideful glimmer made an appearance. His chest flooded with it. He then went on to describe the matches that followed until he reached the moment he’d faced Jeffrey, whereupon Arthur started fiddling with his ancestral ring, his anger and bitterness returning in a thick wave. He didn’t look at Merewald as he spoke of Jeffrey, of the years of emotional abuse and violence at his hands. He didn’t look at her as he spoke of the sheer terror that had frozen his blood when he’d been in the arena with the malicious bastard. He didn’t look at her until she reached across the writing desk and captured his hand gently, squeezing, her expression soft with so much love.

“What happened wasn’t your fault.”

“I know that.” Arthur turned his hand over, lacing their fingers together, and squeezed in return. Waves of warm comfort radiated between them. It softened the sharp emotions coursing through him until it was almost bearable. He looked at his aunt in muted despair and confusion. “I know he drove me to that point – no matter how unwilling I was to reach it. But I can’t help but wonder whether some truce could have been reached somehow. How am I supposed to unite Albion and help her prosper when there are people so unwilling to find peace out there? How am I supposed to accomplish what I’m meant to accomplish when there are people so devoted to hate that no ounce of compassion can reach them? What am I doing wrong?”

“Nothing,” Merewald answered gently, her voice warm and kind. Her grip tightened a fraction. “Arthur, you can’t control what others think and feel and you shouldn’t want to. I know what happened was distressing, but that bastard made those choices of his own free will. Obviously, he made the wrong one. That isn’t your fault.”

“Knowing that doesn’t make it easier to bear.” Arthur drew in a calming breath and held it for a moment before letting it go. He looked towards the balcony, where the waves rolled far below. He’d seen the waves not so long ago and he missed the ocean already; the thought brought a faint smile to his mouth. He looked at Merewald again. “I suppose all I can do is just move forward and do the best I can in the future. I’m sure there’ll be others who’ll hate me and the ground I stand on. I’ll do the best I can to prove them wrong, but I won’t wait forever. I can’t. The people of Albion have been waiting for so long and I don’t want to deprive them much longer; I’ll just have to soldier on regardless of who hates me.”

“As we all must.” Merewald offered another encouraging smile and relinquished his hand before pouring herself a goblet of water. She offered him one and Arthur declined politely, knowing his aunt intended to speak further. “Aside from the incident with Jeffrey, it sounds like the tournament went well. You’ve proved yourself more than capable as a swordsman and you’ll continue to improve with time. I’m proud of you.”

His face warmed.

Arthur looked away, the open admission of her pride and approval inflating his chest with confidence and satisfaction and a delight so pure that it almost burned him from within.

“Arthur,” his aunt said a moment later, summoning his attention right back to her, “I think we need to discuss the happenings in Dorchester further. Tell me what happened after we last spoke.”

He followed the command at once.

 


	59. Chapter Fifty-Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, a warm thank you to everyone leaving comments/kudos. I appreciate you all!
> 
> Secondly, some of the content in this chapter may be considered disturbing. 
> 
> Thirdly, I'm not gonna lie: King Oberon was heavily influenced by Idris Elba as Heimdall. 
> 
> Fourthly, Spriggans are creatures from Cornish myth that abduct children and leave changeling children in their place. This is my own idea of what they might look like and what they might do with the children they abduct. 
> 
> As always, feel free to let me know what you think! I look forward to hearing your thoughts.

_Lughnasadh minus a day, 536 AD – almost two years since I left you._

_Gwen has proven to be an excellent choice. She is courageous and strong, warm and encouraging, resourceful and as hardworking as the warriors and household staff that serve beneath me. She has a strong rapport with the armed forces already; it started developing after she began volunteering to help Marian when wounds were serious. She has also been training with Sir Lancelot for as long as I’ve been training with Merewald. Gwen has taken to these duties like a duck takes to water. I’ve found that I needed to provide minimal training in the end. You were correct: a person that can govern their home can govern a nation. It was just a matter of broadening her perspective and showing her how to navigate the waters of diplomacy, without much babbling, no matter how others might fluster her._

_I’ve started stepping aside from duties while Gwen masters them and adds them to her growing skill set. I’ve remained firm in council sessions and armed duties only, choosing to continue riding out with the Knights whenever trouble arises. Gwen often accompanies me now. The Knights respect her; Gwen has worked hard to earn her place as a replacement for when I leave later in the year. She isn’t a Knight and yet she carries herself like one whenever she dresses for battle. With permission from Her Majesty, Gwen took over the forge for a time and created the pieces for her own armoured bodice. She wears it with pride whenever she accompanies me on quests._

_We landed in Penwith last week._

_Alarming reports that children were being abducted from their beds and replaced with mindless replications reached us in Tintagel Castle._

_One father blessed with telepathic magic had sensed the change in their child and sounded the alarm at once. Soon other parents in the town had noticed the differences in theirs as well and their cries of anguish had joined his._

_Locating and retrieving the abducted children became an immediate priority; I volunteered for the mission in a single heartbeat and took ten Knights and five mages with me. Naturally, as was her new duty, Gwen volunteered to come with us. Her heart is pure and she could never remain behind now when such dangers arise. Not when she could do something to help. Marian accompanied us without prompting, however, but I offered no argument against her decision. I knew the recovered children would need to be treated for bruises and other injuries when we found and retrieved them from wherever the children were being held captive. I’m sure none of them were taken without a fight – even if their parents heard nothing in the night._

_It was odd to see the court physician strung so tightly, as though Marian were an instant from snapping, and there was a glint of recognition in her eyes when we landed in Penwith. She could sense the traces magic lingering in the town. Her expression darkened when she came upon one of the replications and she vibrated with power when she hissed like a feline: the replications recognised her in an instant and cowered at the sight of her._

_Marian claimed that the culprits were spriggans. I’m not certain whether you’ve encountered such creatures before. I can’t recall you speaking of them at least. Marian explained that spriggans are the spirits of giants that turned malicious and that such spirits had been banished from Avalon for being too malicious for even the Fae to tolerate in their fields and halls. The High Queen of the Fae had banished them to a world between the worlds – a pocket of darkness suspended out of time. Marian had no idea what the spirits might want the children for, but she suspected it wouldn’t be pleasant._

_Marian was quick to inform us we wouldn’t have the strength in numbers to take the spriggans down alone: hundreds of them dwelled in the world between worlds and there was no time to delay; sending word to Tintagel Castle would take hours and hours more for reinforcements to arrive._

_“Then what are you suggesting,” I snapped at her. I was tense with rising anger and fear for the children stolen from their beds in the middle of the night. “If the spriggans are as numerous as you say, then we have no other option. We must send for reinforcements and rescue the children from their clutches. Who knows what manner of torment the children are enduring even as we speak!”_

_“I’m suggesting,” Marian answered immediately, her hackles rising, “that we send word to the Fae instead. Time runs a different course in Avalon – years spent there would be the passing of mere minutes here.”_

_I took Gwen aside and conferred with her for a moment or two before facing Marian once more and granting permission to use whatever means necessary; nothing was more important than rescuing the children from those foul creatures. Marian withdrew a horn from within her robes. It was an ornate horn carved from clear crystal and it resonated with an ancient power before she even raised it to her mouth. It glowed when Marian started blowing, the note deep and urgent even as the varied hues that painted the northern skies danced across its surface._

_I knew at once that Marian must have kin at Caer Arianrhod._

_I dared not wonder who such relations might be._

_I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to know._

_Scores of warriors from Avalon arrived within a second of the horn sounding, their armour different shades of the varied hues that painted the northern skies. Just like the horn and the castle the crystal must have originated from. One of the warriors was dressed in gleaming gold and strode forward with authority, his frame tall and broad and powerful. He was like a mountain – even more so than Sir Percival. His armour complimented the deep earthen tones of his skin. His plush lips were framed with trimmed facial hair as dark as shadow. I’m not even ashamed to admit I found him attractive. Honestly, I think even you would have been forced to admit to a fluttering stomach at the sight of this impressive Fae warrior._

_“Daughter,” greeted the warrior, his voice deep and gravelly, but scolding. His silver eyes burned with fervour as he glanced around before focusing on Marian. “You weren’t to blow that horn unless necessary; I sense no imminent danger.”_

_“Your Majesty, I’m afraid that danger has come and gone in the night.” Marian spoke urgently, returning the horn to her robes as she did so. I realised then that Marian had summoned King Oberon to our world and the sudden realisation filled me with dread. I was sure there would be a price for seeking their aid on purpose. “Spriggans have abducted offspring from these lands and taken them to the world between worlds. The Once and Future King seeks your aid in this matter; his own forces are too far away, and I fear each moment spent waiting might be the last for their offspring.”_

_King Oberon slid his gaze over to me and I was rooted to the spot at once. His strong frame radiated power as we stared at one another, neither one of us moving, nor even speaking for the longest moment. It terrified me that I was looking at the powerful being that led kin I never had the chance to know into the otherworld long before I could speak the common tongue. He’d carried the newborn babes Merewald lost away, bearing them into the arms of our fallen ancestors. He’d led Mother through the mists and Tristan not long after her passing._

_I looked death in the eye and lived._

_“Aid sought can never be given freely, Arthur Pendragon. Surely, you know this.”_

_“I suspected as much.” I did not look away, not even for a moment. I couldn’t. King Oberon had to know I was serious about what I needed to secure for these people. “I must offer something in return. However, I can’t imagine what I could offer that you don’t have already, Your Majesty. You have power at your fingertips. You have legions at your command. Your people have wealth beyond the dreams of avarice. I can offer you and your kind nothing, but the blood coursing through me. Yet I can’t offer that and still serve the people as I must. What would you ask of me instead?”_

_“The answer to your question is a simple one.” King Oberon stared at me evenly, his voice somewhat sombre. “I would ask that you never seek our aid again – for whatever reason. The exchange won’t prevent us from offering, if we deem a cause worthy, but you will never be able to stand before our kind and ask for help.”_

_I didn’t pause to think._

_I accepted his terms immediately, knowing that the lives of those children grew more endangered with each passing moment. King Oberon offered his hand and I grasped his arm to seal the deal at last. His ancient power rippled through me the moment the deal was sealed between us._

_I relinquished his hand and offered a respectful bow as befitted a fellow ruler._

_King Oberon offered me the same and then turned away, raising his hands as that ancient power continued to ripple around him. Short hairs rose in warning. Goose bumps broke out upon flesh. I watched the air in front of him charge with energy, crackling until bolts of lightning burst in all directions with so much aggression that we had to retreat several paces to avoid being struck. A pinprick of darkness materialised at the heart of his power and expanded slowly, King Oberon growling, seeming to push with his hands until the growth quickened and a sizeable portal appeared before us. He barked a command for volunteers to keep the portal open and then stepped away, an axe materialising in his grasp._

_I drew the blade I favoured and stepped through the portal before King Oberon could do so instead. He snorted in startled amusement behind me. It was an almost absolute darkness that I stepped into and it took forever to adjust to the changes as I prowled forward. I was primed for a fight. I froze when something crunched underfoot and the sound echoed through the endless darkness surrounding us as more and more warriors stepped through the portal and into the world between worlds. I looked down and could see nothing, so Emrys created a sphere of warm light tinged with blue for me. It hovered beside me. I crouched down to inspect what I’d stood upon and almost threw up at the sight._

_It was a small skull._

_I looked around me as the sphere of light grew brighter and more skulls of various sizes came into view. The sphere of light brightened more and more and continued to reveal the bones of children stolen from their beds. I couldn’t count them. I couldn’t tell you what lands or eras these children had been stolen from. Hundreds – perhaps thousands – of bones were strewn across the ground of that foul world between worlds. It sickened me. It horrified me. It galvanised me into action even as the others came to the same realisation that I had when I saw those bones: time was running out and fast. More and more spheres of light materialised in the air as the Fae warriors used their powers to illuminate a path through the gloom and a child blessed with some scrap of magic screamed in the distance._

_She must have sensed our arrival._

_She cried out your true name and then called out to me in terrified relief. Other children soon took up the cry, allowing us to pinpoint a direction. It was a blessing that one of them had sensed our arrival and could think through their terror enough to guide us to their location in the darkness that surrounded the growing field of light._

_I stormed forward immediately, Gwen and King Oberon on either side of me. The Knights and mages that accompanied us were almost lost amid the sea of Fae warriors that charged in our wake._

_The spriggans were shorter than I expected and damned ugly, with gnarled and twisted bodies that exuded malice so thick that it threatened to choke me. It wasn’t so strange to see spirits were corporeal forms after having met Tristan in the past. Round eyes glowed red like rubies. Long ears curved and came to a point like hideous horns. Spriggans looked nothing like the creatures Marian said their kind originated from and the countless millennia spent without sunlight was more than apparent in their dreadful pallor, their skin so white it looked ashen and sickly, so grotesque. Splintered teeth showed when the spriggans snarled in fury, blood dribbling down the chins of several of them._

_I didn’t want to know what had been done to their victims._

_I didn’t even want to guess._

_I spared no thought for that as a roar escaped me. It was a call to battle and the force gathered behind me answered in an instant. We clashed violently, sharpened steel whirring and singing, and warriors grunting and snarling even as we pushed through the masses. Emrys guided our path and we forced the spriggans to break their lines as we slammed into them like a violent storm._

_I had no time to feel even a spark of relief when I spotted the children bound with black pulsating rings of malevolent magic. Our approach forced the spriggans nearest them to step away; one of them dropped a girl a second after she released a piercing scream that rippled with her own personal magic. One of her fingers was reduced to nothing but a bloodied stump where the creature had torn her finger from the base. I swallowed the bile that rose within me and cut through the creature with an enraged snarl. I kicked the spriggan free of the blade and sent it toppling. I had to sheathe the blade to take the girl from where she’d been cast down on the ground and that same terrified relief we’d heard earlier came out then in strangled sobs._

_She wasn’t bound like the others. I imagined our arrival and their imminent rescue must have galvanised her magic into action. It must have broken out of her with explosive force and obliterated the malevolent power binding her wrists and ankles._

_She wrapped her arms and legs around me._

_“I’m getting you out of here.” I squeezed the girl closer to me and looked around in terrified determination as the men and women serving beneath me each gathered a child into their arms. Sir Percival took three of them. One of those three rode on his back after a desperate mage had broken through the malevolent bindings with a roar of effort. Sir Percival carried the other two under his immense arms. “Can you trust me to do that?”_

_The girl answered me with a sob of agreement._

_I started running, trusting the Fae warriors to keep our path clear and our enemies occupied. Emrys ensured the path ahead remained illuminated. Our feet thundered across the ground and countless bones crunched underfoot as I and those serving beneath me ran through the world between worlds as fast as we could._

_Spriggans howled in outrage as we denied them the remainder of their feast._

_The Fae warriors retreated quickly, still battling, their blades and axes and hammers and other weapons lethal in the fading light as we propelled ourselves towards the portal Marian held open with the aid of two others. It was tempting to fall to the ground as soon as I escaped with the girl and yet I knew I couldn’t: we’d be trampled underfoot in an instant and would condemn the others in our wake to the same cruel fate._

_I kept running until muscles started burning and then ran even longer, a powerful ache flaring within me as my lungs struggled to keep me going. Still I ran. I ran until that crackling power vanished and the last bestial roar faded from existence. I toppled to the ground with the girl and sobbed openly, cradling her against me. She clung to me in return even as her blood made the armour weighing me down warm and sticky, the strong scent of copper tainting the air around me. It would have been easy, so easy for her to be one of the children we’d failed to rescue from those foul creatures. I ran a shaking hand over her and held her through the shaking, the pair of us trembling, stricken with grief for those lost and yet relieved to have escaped with our lives: a lost finger seemed inconsequential in comparison. I held her until King Oberon approached and crouched down beside us. He looked as though he hadn’t even broken a sweat. The girl clinging to me drew away, some distant echo of her magic recognising the ancient power before her._

_“You don’t need to be afraid. I haven’t come for you.” King Oberon spoke quietly, his voice gentle despite the gravel in each deep note. His silver eyes were warm with kindness. “I intend to heal your hand. We can’t let that keep bleeding, darling, or you’ll risk an even worse fate than a missing finger. Will you let me?”_

_Automatically, the girl looked at me and I prompted her gently, watching as she offered her hand to death without an ounce of fear once I’d given that assurance. King Oberon healed her with tender care and ran a soothing hand over her shaking wrist. She slumped with exhaustion when he drew away, and I cradled her closer, murmuring soothing nonsense even as exhausted tears continued to slide down our faces._

_I rose from the ground and trembled where I stood before offering grateful words to the King, stepping around him and heading for the town as the others did the same. I was relieved to see that I wasn’t alone in grief: all those who served under me were just as overwhelmed with emotion after what occurred in the world between worlds. Our emotions worsened when frantic parents stumbled out of their homes and cried out at the sight of their children. It was a tearful reunion for some and for others it was agony, parents crumpling to the ground as realisation broke through them like a cruel wave._

_Witnessing their aguish was difficult enough._

_I don’t want to imagine what it would feel like to discover some creature had stolen young Devon from his cradle and devoured him in that dreadful place. The thought alone floods me with nausea and a protective rage so powerful that I’ve begun trembling even as I write this account._

_Marian claimed the spriggans must have broken free of their confinement because the magic binding them had weakened with age. It was a weak spot and there would be others across Albion – perhaps in other lands as well. She has gone travelling, determined to find and heal all the weak spots so that children will be safe for a long time to come._

_Dame Robyn has opted to go with her and I can’t claim that I’m surprised. I’ve noticed the Knight spending an excessive amount of time in the infirmary, perhaps just to experience her company; the injuries she’d be treated for are minor: bumps and scrapes that commoners and their mothers could treat with ease. Her uptight and sarcastic attitude seems to dissolve when around Marian – who regards Dame Robyn with increasing amusement. I can’t determine whether Marian appreciates the attention or not. However, I do believe she’d have refused to accept her presence on the journey, if Dame Robyn was getting on her nerves at all._

_What happened in the world between worlds still haunts me. I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve been having nightmares. I wake in the middle of the night suffering an elevated heartbeat and a cold sweat that makes me shiver. The one thing that calms me is dressing for battle and patrolling through the town. Just in case. Ansgar joins me on those nights. I don’t know how she knew I was having trouble sleeping, but I’m glad for her company; her voice is warm and kind when she speaks with me and she treats me like a man despite the nightmares plaguing me. I think even you would have nightmares after discovering those bones and witnessing that foul creature biting that girl._

_I’m with Gwen or Merewald whenever I’m not with Ansgar; I have to keep busy, or I’ll start thinking of that dreadful place again. Gwen comes to me whenever she has questions about her duties and it reminds me of the first few stressful months after I’d been crowned Prince of Cornwall. We often discuss the documentation that comes to her hands before a council meeting, just so she has a better understanding of all the things that nobles often take for granted._

_I’ve been marvelling at how much the two of us have grown since we fled from Camelot. I could never have imagined feeling so confident in the duties I’ve overseen that I could teach someone to replace me._

_That word makes me frown._

_I’m not being replaced. I’m stepping aside to oversee important duties elsewhere. I must ascend the throne of Wessex and begin our journey, for the betterment of our realms and the benefit of the people dwelling within. I must take realms like Deorham and Amata under our banner, so that those people can live without fear of those ruling over them. I must strive to be the best ruler the people of Albion could ever deserve. With Emrys to guide the way, I’m sure I can accomplish much and I’ll do so with your name burning in my heart._

_Your name continues to be a treasure to me. It galvanises me even as an ache flares up inside me at the thought of you. One day, you and I will reunite and I’ll whisper our familiar promise against your lips as I hold you close once more. I regret that Sir Tor wasn’t able to pass on the message I sent him back to Camelot with. It kills me to know you’re so isolated and alone while I’m surrounded with loved ones. It kills me to know Bayard is so paranoid about your influence in Camelot that he didn’t even trust Councillor Ares enough to set the wards forbidding entry, burning the hands of all those who dared to approach the door without permission from whatever practitioner did his bidding._

_Sir Tor showed me the blisters on his hand._

_I couldn’t stop apologising, knowing he wouldn’t have suffered such a burn were it not for me asking him to pass messages to you. Sir Tor told me not to apologise. He said I wasn’t to blame and yet I feel as though I am. You wouldn’t have lost your magic had I never walked into your life. You wouldn’t have been imprisoned in your home were it not for your affection for me. You’d still have a wholesome relationship with your uncle were it not for me. In a way, I am to blame for all the horrors that have befallen you and I don’t know how I can make up for the pain you’ve suffered because of me._

_All I can do is love you and I’m not sure it’ll ever be enough._

_I know the man I made love with in Ealdor won’t be the same man you’ll be when I reunite with you at last. I know your dreadful experiences will have shaped you into someone new – someone I might not even recognise when we meet again. I just hope the changes won’t be so drastic that we can never reconcile our differences and begin our relationship anew._

_I’m afraid of being with you again and knowing your regard for me has changed._

_I’m afraid of watching your relief at seeing me alive grow into resentment for having suffered so much because of me. I’m afraid of being unable to make you unhappy, of being unable to gain your approval again. I’m afraid that I’ll never be good enough for whatever version of you that’ll emerge from the prison Bayard has trapped you in. I’m afraid of seeing hatred burning in your eyes._

_I don’t think I could bear to see you hate me._

_Emrys claims that one half could never hate the other, but I’m not sure how true that statement is. There were times when I made you so stressed and unhappy, no matter how often Emrys tries to claim otherwise. Stress and unhappiness can lead to darker feelings. I’m afraid of seeing that happen with you. I know you’d never hurt me. That isn’t what I’m saying. But I don’t know whether that kind of hatred and bitterness and resentment could ever be overcome._

_I hope it can be – for your sake and mine._

_We deserve to be happy, Merlin._

_Speaking of being happy, Gwen and Sir Lancelot will tie the knot tomorrow. I’ve never seen either of them look so blissful before. It pleases me to see them so and yet I’m envious of their happiness. I want to be the one that can’t sit still because things need to be perfect. I want to be the one running their hands over ceremonial clothes to make sure there are no loose threads or weakened seams. I want to be the one that can’t stop smiling because the moment I tie the knot with the man I love is fast approaching. I want to be the one murmuring heartfelt vows._

_The servants and kitchen staff are aflutter, darting here and there to secure decorations and preparing for the coming feast. Their enthusiasm is infectious. Tintagel Castle hasn’t witnessed a wedding since my parents tied the knot. Merewald offered the castle as a venue as soon as she’d heard Sir Lancelot proposed all those months ago. She seems more than eager to witness the wedding, but there is also a tension in her frame that makes me want to pull her into a crushing embrace. She must be thinking about the babes she lost when she was a girl. I can’t bear to imagine what that must be like. Sometimes she looks at me and I see the quiet longing, the soft wonder, and I know she must be imagining what her babes might have looked like after growing._

_Sometimes I think some part of her clings to me because I’m a reminder and yet I’m nothing like them. I think Merewald regrets not standing up to Uther because raising me would have given her a taste of what it might have been like to have raised children of her own. Lately, she has been softer with me than usual. She spends more and more time with me and delegates more and more of her duties to those serving beneath her. Sometimes she wanders down to the sands alone and doesn’t come back for hours at a time._

_I’m concerned about her._

_I asked her whether it was because I’m leaving later in the year, but Merewald just shook her head and bestowed a warm kiss upon me. She said she was tired and that she wanted to take the time to rest. She never had the chance to rest as Queen of Cornwall. Not when she was first crowned and had to struggle with making such important decisions for the first time. Not when she spent years having her mind violated and unable to grieve the people she’d loved and lost over the years. Nor even when she was helping me through the traumas I’ve been living with. Maybe she is just resting, but I can’t help but fear it might be something more. I’m almost certain she’d tell me whether she was ill or something of that nature. Perhaps Merewald has just been feeling her age lately; she has witnessed so much heartbreak and withstood so much suffering over the years._

_It must be taking its toll on her._

_I imagine it’ll happen to us all in the end._

_I hope you’ll be with me when it happens to us. I’d like to retire with you to Cornwall one day, and rest here with you. I’d like to take you out on a faering and row into one of the larger caves around here. I’d tie the faering to one of the rocks. We’d curl up together and sleep until the tide drifts away, leaving the faering stable in the sand. We’d make love together in the cradle of the earth and then we’d sleep again until the water bobbing beneath us woke us back up. I’d kiss you because you robbed me of breath when you rubbed at your face and squinted at me blearily, and then you’d smile at me like an idiot. I’d row us back to the pier and we’d return to the castle together, where we’d continue to rest for the remainder of our lives._

_Would you like that?_

Arthur set down his quill and rubbed at the ache in his chest. His eyes watered as he imagined growing old with Merlin and then abdicating, leaving states affairs to their capable children. He closed his eyes for a moment and swallowed thickly, rising from his chair. He felt weak at the knees. It felt wrong to think about the future when Merlin didn’t even know he was alive. It felt wrong to think about the future when all Merlin had to think about was the funeral he never received. He couldn’t imagine Bayard would spare the materials required for such a thing. Bayard might have dumped the man he believed was Arthur in the river instead or diced him and fed him to his hounds. Who knew what that cold bastard might have done with the remains of that poor man just because he’d taken on the likeness of Arthur and deceived the Bayard with his death?

He crossed his chambers and braced his hands against the mantelpiece. Warmth licked at him from the fireplace. It was a cool evening, and he’d lit the fire earlier, listening to Merewald announce that she was going to take a flight with Nemesis. She’d asked whether he wanted to join her, but Arthur had declined politely; he’d been itching to write in his journal for some time. He stared down into the flames dancing before him. His tension started ebbing when Emrys embraced him like a lover, winding around him from behind and drawing him away, cradling him close. His frame relaxed as Emrys trailed soft kisses along the side of his neck. It wasn’t passionate. It was warm and comforting, coaxing, and Arthur soon found himself sprawling on the fur in front of the fire while Emrys summoned parchment and quill and ink.

Arthur watched the ink spread across the parchment as Emrys began writing, their penmanship having improved a great deal since their frequent communication with Arthur first began.

_We can feel you aching, Arthur. Do you want to talk about it?_

“How do you know me so well?” Arthur sighed quietly, folding his arms upon the soft bear fur beneath him and pillowing his head. Emrys sprawled across his back and nestled even closer, enveloping him in tender affection. His heart ached again and he voiced his thoughts from a moment ago. “It feels wrong to think about our future together when Merlin doesn’t have that luxury, Emrys. Thoughts of the future we promised each other would just torment him after what he witnessed in that room. Guilt eats at me when I think about it. Have I been selfish?”

_You must never think that. Thinking of the future keeps you going, Arthur. It helps you keep moving forward and our mortal vessel wouldn’t begrudge you that. Our mortal vessel will overcome his torment. You must have faith in him and the strength of the bond we both share with him. His spirit is far stronger than you think. He might not remember, but this isn’t the first time our mortal vessel has suffered for the love glowing in his heart._

_He will endure._


	60. Chapter Fifty-Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, folks.
> 
> As always, feel free to let me know what you think! I look forward to hearing your thoughts.

Arthur vacated the banquet hall early, slipping through the doors while people were dancing, his heart pounding in his chest. He’d lasted through the wedding and the subsequent feast before admitting defeat and thinking about the man that possessed his heart and soul. He’d tried so hard not to give into the urge on their special day, knowing it would plunge him into melancholy, but he couldn’t help himself. He hoped Gwen would forgive him. He just couldn’t last another moment in there – not when all the people were so boisterous and happy, living their lives to the fullest while the man he loved remained imprisoned and isolated in his own home. The worst part was that he still hadn’t figured out how to tell Ninianne and her kin about Merlin and it had been weeks since he’d learned the truth.

Merewald remained the one person he’d told about what happened to Merlin.

Arthur didn’t know how to begin. It wasn’t an excuse for keeping the truth to himself and still it wasn’t a truth confessed easily; it would hurt him to speak of it and it would hurt the others to hear it even more. Merlin was such a social person that confinement and isolation would be far more damaging to him than it would be for Arthur, who often avoided social interactions whenever he could do so without offending someone or shirking his duties. He liked his solitude now that he had a reminder of Merlin with him at all times. His lover had no such reminders – at least none that weren’t painful. He couldn’t imagine the torment Merlin must be feeling, living and sleeping in the chambers where Bayard had thrown a severed head at him.

Just thinking about it churned his stomach.

If someone he’d once loved had stormed into his chambers and thrown the head of his lover at Arthur, he didn’t know what he’d have done. He might have devolved into a state of madness and rage and tried to slaughter them for murdering the man he loved as Merlin had done. He might have sunk to his knees in grief and desolation and never moved again. He might have done various things that would accomplish nothing; Merlin would still be dead and he’d have nothing but a bloodied head to cradle in his hands. His tears would do nothing but wet sightless eyes that would never crinkle with happiness again. No amount of keening, or pleading, or weeping would bring life back to the man he loved after such a barbaric act.

It also didn’t take a scholar to realise that Merlin wasn’t the same kind of man as him. Merlin was a social butterfly, his conversational wings fluttering at all times and charming all those who met him. Merlin couldn’t let a single morning pass without having at least one conversation.

Ninianne and her kin would be heartbroken and enraged to hear that Merlin had been imprisoned in his own chambers. Arthur wasn’t certain he could prevent the lot of them from charging back to Camelot and attacking Bayard in a fit of emotion. He wasn’t sure he’d want to: Bayard deserved to face their rage and more. His one concern was for their safety; he couldn’t bear to see them harmed for the sake of vengeance.

It was a dilemma of terrible proportions.

Arthur strode through the corridors and slipped out of the castle. It was quite late in the evening, the sun long set. He felt a chill in the air – not unusual for this time of year. He knew the sunlight was shortening, the evenings growing darker and the nights growing longer, and the weather would be getting colder. He couldn’t wait to see the winter storms again. He wanted to see them slam into the cliffs below his chambers one last time before he left for Wessex.

Sighing heavily, Arthur crossed the bridge and headed down to the sands. He found the smoothest rock possible and sat down facing the Great Sea of Meredor. She was calm as he gazed out at the dark waves rolling towards the shore. Arthur drew his cloak closer, his fingers fisting the material lightly, and inhaled the strong scent of salt on the air. He bowed his head and thought about his lover, his heart aching, hoping there would be some glimmer of the man he loved remaining when he and Merlin reunited in the future. His coronet had never felt like a heavier burden than it had after he’d learned about what happened to Merlin. He wondered whether this was how Merlin felt when he learned Bayard was abusing him whenever he had the chance.

Emrys surged out of the crystal grazing his sternum and tapped his chin with a phantom finger, a silent and gentle command to raise his head. Arthur followed the unspoken order immediately, the ache in his chest easing somewhat. Something familiar fluttered in his stomach. It wasn’t a surprise when Emrys kissed him. He melted into the familiar sensation quickly, his grip on his cloak slackening, leaning into the phantom kiss just so. He let Emrys comfort him until the ache in his chest faded almost entirely, reducing it to a dull throb that almost seemed manageable. Phantom fingers caressed the nape of his neck. Sighing deeply, Arthur closed his eyes and found himself murmuring, “What would I do without you? You never fail to make me feel better.”

Emrys guided him into another tender kiss. It was soft and lingering, deep and searching, and Arthur appreciated each moment. His grip on his cloak tightened a fraction as he imagined gripping raven hair instead. Arthur moaned quietly, his heart giving an eager thump as he imagined Merlin pushing him down until his cloak was the only barrier between himself and the sand. He imagined Merlin blanketing him and cradling him close as Emrys often did in his stead. He imagined running his shaking, eager hands over pale flesh covered in goose bumps from the cool breeze and not caring; both of them would know his magic would warm them as soon as either of them needed it.

“ _That_ is the strangest thing I’ve ever witnessed.”

Arthur jerked away, his heart thundering, and swallowed as Emrys disappeared into the crystal grazing his sternum at the sound of that familiar voice. He looked up at his adoptive brother, who approached slowly, a somewhat disturbed expression on his familiar face. His mouth dried up as his own face burned with humiliation and Arthur blurted out a question before he realised what he was doing.

“What are you doing out here?!”

“I could ask you the same question.” Elyan rolled his eyes and settled down in the sand beside his leg. He glanced up at Arthur, who shifted in discomfort and averted his gaze at once. His voice gentled as Arthur continued to blush like some inexperienced maiden caught admiring someone. “Gwen realised you might be hurting when she learned you’d left. She sent me to look for you.”

“Tell her not to worry,” Arthur answered quietly, his shoulders hunching against the concern in his voice. He rubbed the back of his neck with an awkward hand. “I just needed some space. You know how I am around large crowds.”

“Is that all?”

“I suppose I needed some time to think as well – without ruining the mood in the banquet hall.” Arthur glanced at his adoptive brother, his expression more than a fraction sorrowful. He tried to smile. He returned his gaze to the rolling waves when his efforts failed. “If I remained much longer, I’d end up getting drunk to drown the feelings inside me and I’d make a fool of someone before long. Gwen deserves so much better than that. I was there for the most important parts.”

“I’ve noticed you’ve been doing extra training sessions lately,” Elyan admitted after several moments of contemplative silence had stretched between them. His words summoned his attention all over again. Arthur arched an eyebrow at the comment as his blush faded from existence at last. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone slam into training props with such aggression and determination before. Is there something bothering you?”

Arthur returned his attention to the Great Sea of Meredor, his heart having jumped into his throat. His heart made an overlarge nest in his throat that continued to grow long after the question had been asked. Arthur offered a reluctant answer, the words catching in his throat before he managed to push them past the lump growing there. He spoke of the emotional reunion with Sir Tor in his tent and the things he’d learned about Merlin while speaking to him.

His adoptive brother remained silent beside him and did nothing major, though he did lean his head against his leg for the briefest moment. It was enough contact to let him know Elyan was listening and taking his admission to heart. It wasn’t comforting; Arthur wasn’t certain anyone other than Emrys could comfort him after what he’d learned about the man he loved.

“I don’t know what to say,” Elyan murmured several minutes later, his tone both morose and compassionate. He touched his leg again – with his hand this time – and squeezed in strained understanding. “Arthur, I can’t believe you’ve kept this a secret for so long. I don’t know how you managed that without breaking apart at the seams. No wonder you wanted to leave the celebrations before the night was through. I wouldn’t want to be celebrating either.”

“I’m doing the best I can to remain strong, but there are moments when I can’t be. I have nothing to be ashamed of.” His voice was resolute as Arthur spoke quietly, squaring his shoulders against the ache inside him at the thought of Merlin. He raised his chin and looked at his adoptive brother, his gaze as hard as stone and as sharp as steel. His voice strengthened with each word uttered. “I have to keep moving forward – no matter how hard it seems. I have to keep moving, for me and for the man I love and for the other people depending on me to build them a better future. I have to build new alliances and demolish alliances in place already, so that I can surround Bayard on all sides. Fortunately, I have Morgana to help me now. She’ll be returning to Essetir in the morning and she’ll suggest forming an alliance with me to her sister, who rules there. Princess Mithian will be visiting on behalf of King Rodor at the end of the month. I have a strong feeling – actually, I’m certain – that Nemeth will side with me against that cruel bastard without alerting him until it’ll be too late for him to do a single thing to stop it. It’ll be an underhanded move. It’ll have to be. I need the element of surprise in order to take him down. Thankfully, the enchantment placed upon me will prevent others from spreading the word too soon.”

“You sound like you have it all figured out.”

“Mostly,” Arthur admitted reluctantly, not wanting to sound arrogant in the least. It had taken quite a while to form his plans and he still wasn’t as confident in them as he’d like to be. But his plans were a continuous work in progress and he’d get to that point of confidence at some point in the future. “I still don’t know what I’ll do about realms like Amata and Deorham and Dyfed. None of them will form an alliance with me. I knew that much before I started planning.”

“You’ll just have to take those realms then.” Elyan grew serious as he gazed up at Arthur, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight spilling across the sands. “You’ll have to do what Queen Morgause did in Essetir: you’ll have to win the right to rule them in the arena. You’ll have to kill or incarcerate their former monarchs to prevent them from plotting behind your back or warning Bayard before you can take him down. Doing so won’t be easy, Arthur, and it won’t be pleasant. I hope you’re prepared to make some difficult decisions.”

Arthur bowed his head in contemplation for a moment as his mind mulled over the quiet advice his adoptive brother had bestowed upon him. His brow furrowed in serious contemplation before he went on to say, “King Sarrum has never visited Camelot and Mercia in the past and Bayard has never visited Amata either. I won’t need to be so drastic in Amata. King Sarrum won’t know who I am until I tell him and it would be best to avoid that for as long as possible. I might have to use a different surname when I meet him. It’ll be another underhanded move and yet it must be done to avoid being found out. I can’t risk Bayard learning about me too soon.”

“No, I don’t suppose you can.” Elyan rose to his feet and brushed the sand from his cloak before looking at Arthur once more. He reached out and gripped his shoulder with a firm hand. “Come on: return to the banquet hall for another while and then you can retire for the night. Dance with someone you like. It might do you some good!”

“Okay,” Arthur agreed quietly, his mouth curling around a small smile. He took the hand now offered to him and let himself be hauled to his feet. He clapped his adoptive brother upon the shoulder and the pair set off together, walking in silence beside each other.

Several moments passed before Elyan spoke again.

“Do you want me to come with you in the winter?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Arthur shook his head at once. He gazed up at the handsome castle looming in the distance. His mouth curled around another smile. “Honestly, I’d be happier knowing you and Gwen were protecting each other down here. I’ll manage without you. I have to leave the nest eventually, right? Besides...I’ve made some acquaintances in Dorchester that I can turn to when I need some good company, though it won’t be quite the same as spending time with you and Gwen. I also intend to visit Cornwall whenever I can. I doubt it’ll be often...but I’ll do the best I can.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Arthur glanced at Elyan and his smile broadened with affection. “I know Tom will insist on coming, but we’ll have to persuade him to remain here with the pair of you. He doesn’t need to come with me. I’m not going to get hurt the minute I leave.”

“He just worries. You know that.” Elyan frowned faintly, the clouds drifting overhead casting shadows that distorted his features. “It was hard for him to see you so troubled last year. It was hard for all of us.”

“It was hard for me as well.” Arthur looked away, swallowing, his smile faltering somewhat. He did his best to keep his chin up regardless. He did his best to keep his voice from wavering as he spoke to Elyan about his ongoing emotional troubles. “I don’t like thinking about that time. Sometimes I can’t help but look back and think about all the time I wasted in that bed – time I could have spent getting to know Merewald and preparing for what I plan to do now. I know I was sick and still am sometimes. I know I’ve been suffering some strange illness that doesn’t have a name. But knowing that doesn’t make it easier to remember that time without feeling as though I’d been pathetic and worthless. That I still am pathetic and worthless. I avoid thinking like that as often as I can...but sometimes it still slips through regardless. But I’m doing much better now than I was before – even after what I learned about Merlin.”

“I know that.” Elyan touched his arm and stopped him as the pair neared the pier at last. Ships bobbed in the water nearby, bumping against the pier just enough to be heard in the darkness. Arthur looked askance at them and then looked at his adoptive brother. “I know how much you’ve healed since then. I can see it whenever I spend time with you. We can all see it. But knowing you’ve come so far doesn’t stop us from being concerned about your wellbeing. Can you begrudge our father his worries?”

“I suppose not.” His smile returned twice as affectionate as before. Arthur continued walking, pleased when Elyan kept pace with him. “I imagine I’d be just as concerned about him were our positions reversed. I just hope he’ll listen to reason about this. I can’t expect the people I care about to pack their bags and relocate whenever I have to go somewhere new. It wouldn’t be fair to expect that! This situation isn’t the same as when we fled Camelot. You won’t be killed for having loved me the moment I leave this time.”

“True enough. I’ll have a word with him. I can’t promise anything, though.” Elyan clapped him on the shoulder and his smile broadened even further at the open show of camaraderie between them. “You know, I’ll miss you. Serving the Queen just won’t be the same without you.”

“You’ll have Gwen to work with now. It’ll be just as good. Better, even. She doesn’t lash out in anger and frustration as often as I do.” Arthur chuckled and shook his head. He gazed at the path stretching out ahead of them. “I’m hoping to make it official at some point. Currently, she’ll be acting as a steward of sorts while I’m away, but I intend to add her to the line of succession as soon as I ascend the throne here. Or maybe Merewald might add her before I get a chance. I suppose it’ll depend on how well Gwen performs in the coming months.”

“Are you serious?!”

“Very,” Arthur answered immediately, nodding his head. Confidence flooded through him as he and Elyan followed the path leading up to the town. He didn’t have to look at him to know Elyan was startled at the announcement. “I believe Gwen will make an excellent Crown Princess and an even better Queen someday; she has immense potential dwelling within her. I have endless faith in her abilities.”

Arthur and Elyan fell into silence soon after, the pair of them thinking, winding through the town and crossing the bridge together. He’d just reached the steps leading into the castle when Elyan spoke again.

“I’m surprised you didn’t choose Percival. He has years of experience at court and is more than capable as a warrior, Arthur, while maintaining a deep understanding of commoners’ needs and difficulties.”

“I considered him for the position.” Arthur frowned in contemplation as he remembered the list of names he’d considered and debated with his aunt. “Merewald and I considered several people before deciding on Gwen. Personally, I’d wanted to select her from the beginning, but I knew I had to be fair and take others into consideration before I could make such a decision. Sir Percival was one individual I considered and Leon was another, as were a few of the various nobles I’ve met since accepting these duties in the first place.”

“As in the librarian?”

“Leon might be custodian of the library, but he’s also the court genealogist and record keeper,” Arthur corrected calmly, his tone firm and uncompromising as he spoke about his good friend. He made a mental note to invite Leon to dine with him again soon: he hadn’t dined with the librarian in several weeks. “If Gwen had declined the offer, I’d have liked to see Leon acting as steward for me instead. He had a noble upbringing and knows how to navigate political waters as a result. He also trains whenever he can. No one knows more about the laws of this realm than he does. He’d make a fine Crown Prince of Cornwall.”

“But you chose Gwen.”

“I did indeed.” Arthur offered a polite smile to the sentries guarding the doors and said nothing more as the pair of them strode through Tintagel Castle. A nudge of his will sent Emrys out to remove the last traces of sand from their clothes and boots before he opened the doors to the banquet hall and slipped inside. He paused and glanced at his adoptive brother, his expression softening with warm regard. “Thanks for encouraging me to come back.”

“You’d do the same for me.”

Arthur was on the verge of uttering something more and then thought better of it after a moment or so. He inclined his head in open acknowledgment and agreement before turning and striding across the banquet hall. He spotted Freya lingering in the far corner, her soft gaze locked upon the dance floor, where Morgana was laughing and dancing with Gwen to an upbeat number. Freya was wearing finer clothes than he’d ever seen her wear, which befitted her position as maidservant to a woman of such high standing, and complimented her pale skin well. It was a warm purple with floral pattern embroidered at the wrists and hem. It reminded him of some of the finer clothes Gwen used to design for herself and never wear in pubic because it wasn’t befitting her station as a blacksmith. Freya had white flowers in her hair, the forelocks of which had been swept back from her face and pinned in place. Arthur soon found himself in front of her, smiling, and asking, “Care to step out for a dance with me?”

Freya blushed in an instant.

“I’m not much good at dancing,” she answered quietly, glancing at him and then looking away, though a small smile curled around her mouth. Freya wrapped an arm across herself and rubbed at the other, the action somewhat awkward and embarrassed. “Mother used to tell me that I’ve got two left feet.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t have some fun.” His smile brightened. “It doesn’t matter whether you dance well or not. I’m wearing boots: I’ll be fine regardless of whether you stand on me.”

Arthur winked at her before capturing her hand and leading her out onto the dance floor, glancing over his shoulder to ensure he wasn’t overstepping too much. She didn’t seem upset in the least. If anything, her small smile had grown even warmer. Arthur ignored the whispering, and the sidelong glances from the nobility, and guided the maidservant into position just as the musicians moved onto something slower – something Freya might have a chance of keeping up with. He kept a firm grasp of her hand as the pair stood beside each other. He turned his head and offered a reassuring smile before counting time to give her fair warning.

He’d grown up dancing to much livelier tunes in Camelot.

Bards and musicians would often come and perform in the streets during feasts and festivals when Arthur was young, and Gwen would lead him into dances despite his mulish attitude and severe reluctance.

It was never long before his mood perked up.

It was the same for Freya now, who choked on a burst of laughter when Arthur hopped forward with her once before tripping over his damned cloak. Chuckling, the pair ceased dancing for a moment and he unclasped his cloak before handing it to a passing servant with an apologetic smile and a word of gratitude.

Arthur and Freya started the dance again a moment or so later, their steps slow and somewhat jaunty, moving forward with a hop and then hopping in one place before moving forward with another hop with the opposite leg. He and Freya hopped forward three times before turning and doing the same in the other direction. He then ducked down to wrap an arm around her back before lifting her, turning them and earning another choked burst of laughter, her arm slung around his shoulder. He repeated the lift three times before murmuring, “And now we hop backwards from each other.”

Arthur and Freya proceed to do just that and she fumbled to add in the slight turning steps that accompanied the hopping, which she’d seen Arthur adding, but it didn’t matter much in the long run. She was still smiling, and that was all that mattered to Arthur, who then moved into the next sequence. His face warmed as various noblewomen watched him prance forward with hopping steps and turns before retreating to his place and raising an encouraging hand to beckon Freya forward. It was clear that she wasn’t certain of the steps in the next sequence.

It didn’t matter.

Freya danced regardless.

She made the steps up as she went and stumbled several times before she reached Arthur, who smiled at her, warm and encouraging, before wrapping an arm around her again. Arthur lifted her and turned her seven more times before setting her back down on her feet and leading her into the next sequence of steps. He and Freya hopped back and forth and around each other, the former still smiling and the latter huffing out small bursts of laughter, her face red as she tossed a several locks of her hair back over her shoulder. The pair of them hopped and stepped a figure eight around each other before Arthur returned to lift Freya again.

Arthur repeated the lift five more times and darted his free hand out under her legs during the last one. Freya squeaked and threw her other arm around his neck as Arthur started twirling, grinning, saying, “Admit it: that wasn’t so bad!”

Freya laughed into his ear despite the vice grip her arms had around his neck and shoulders. She buried her face in his neck until he stopped spinning her around in circles and set her down on her feet. Arthur steadied her with quick and gentle hands when she started wobbling, looking a little dizzy, and then he gazed down at her seriously, frowning, “You _are_ okay, aren’t you? I hope I didn’t overstep too much.”

“I’m okay,” Freya confirmed a moment later, her hand up at her temple as her equilibrium stabilised. She gave him the brightest smile he’d ever seen her wear once the dizziness faded from her expression. “I haven’t tried to dance in a long time. It was a nice surprise!”

“I’m glad I surprised you then.” His frown faded in favour of another smile. Arthur captured her hands and squeezed them. “I wanted to give you something nice before you leave tomorrow. Something you’d remember.”

Freya startled him with another burst of laughter, her expression warm and kind. Her hands squeezed in return as her laughter eased enough for her to say, “Arthur, I don’t think I could ever forget you. You didn’t have to dance with me for that!”

“But I wanted to.” His face warmed again. Arthur looked down and away, chewing his cheek for a moment. His smile grew almost bashful as he and Freya continued to keep their hands joined together. His thumb stroked the back of her hand with care. “I’d like to think we’re friends now.”

“I’d like to think so as well.” Freya pulled her hands away, hesitated visibly, and then stepped forward to wrap her arms around his middle. “Thank you for being so good to me.”

Arthur swallowed past the lump that developed in his throat upon hearing the emotion in her voice. Her arms tightened around him. He glanced down at the top of her head as it rested against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her slowly, not wanting to overwhelm her, and returned the embrace with great care. He wasn’t certain what to do when she started trembling, but ran a soothing hand between her shoulder blades as he looked around for his sister, spotting her and Gwen speaking with Sir Lancelot on the other side of the banquet hall. It took less than a moment to give Emrys a commanding nudge and Arthur watched as surprise jolted through Morgana.

Morgana looked at him at once.

Arthur beckoned her with a toss of his head and a meaningful glance down at Freya – who was still trembling, clinging to Arthur, her face pressed hard against his chest to conceal whatever emotions were wreaking havoc upon her features. Morgana was moving before he’d finished beckoning her, gliding through the attendees easily, her shoulders squared and her chin raised with determination even as concern washed over her pale features. She was soon reaching out for her maidservant.

“Darling, are you alright?”

“I’m okay, milady,” Freya answered immediately, a tremor in her voice. She withdrew from Arthur, turning to her mistress at once. Her hands were shaking when she reached for Morgana. Neither of them paid much mind to the odd glances from the nobles scattered around the banquet hall. “But I think I need to retire for the night. Do you mind?”

“You can retire whenever you need to. I told you that earlier,” Morgana replied warmly, her sharp features softening with deep affection. Pale fingers hovered over dark hair for a moment before settling upon her shoulder. “I’ll escort you back to our chambers.”

“Milady, you don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t have to. But I wouldn’t mind a few minutes of silence after all that dancing. Come along, darling.” Morgana squeezed her shoulder and Arthur turned his attention away, feeling as though he were intruding, particularly when Freya glanced at her mistress with a familiar glimmer of quiet adoration in her eyes. His attention returned when Morgana called his name. His sister gave him a firm stare. “Don’t retire before I come back. I want at least one dance with you before I return to Essetir in the morning, Arthur.”

“Don’t worry; I won’t.”

Arthur watched Morgana and her maidservant slip away, his sister supporting the other woman with a firm arm around her delicate shoulders. Freya looked frail and vulnerable next to his sister, who seemed like a force of nature beside her – not unlike Merlin when he was flooded with purpose and concern for the people he loved. His heart clenched as he remembered the words Freya had said to him before she’d started shaking with rising emotion.

His throat clamped down around the lump that had appeared earlier.

Arthur knew what it felt like to be so grateful when people were kind to him after years of mistreatment. He watched them go until the doors closed in their wake and then turned away, needing to distract himself.

Arthur stepped forward to participate in the next social dance. He found himself among a circle of young noblemen at the heart of a ring of young noblewomen. He and the other noblemen stepped and hopped in time with the music in one direction while the noblewoman pranced and hopped in the other with their hands on their hips. Soon Arthur found himself hopping and turning to face one of the noblewomen as she turned to face him simultaneously, and he stepped to the right and to the left while she pranced in front of him before stepping forward and turning, changing places with her. Arthur smiled as the dance continued into the next sequence and continued to smile through the stepping, the hopping, the prancing, the twirling, the lifting, and the darting in and out while the noblewomen avoided the noblemen in a teasing manner. That sequence soon led into the weaving, where the nobles danced past each other, clutching hands briefly, smiling at each new partner.

It was one of the few social dances he’d learned since his crowning. He much preferred dancing with the one partner for a whole number, especially when he was dancing with his adoptive sister, who’d been kind and patient as she danced with him when he was younger, but Arthur wasn’t going to complain about the social dance. It was still a pleasant pastime. Not that he was much good at dancing compared to the other nobles dancing around him now.

Normally, he felt out of sorts when dancing at a banquet. He’d felt as though his feet were too large for his steps to ever be graceful and effortless and that he’d trip as soon as he lost focus for even a moment. He’d been convinced he’d humiliate himself in front of the entire court.

Arthur didn’t feel like that now and he wondered what had changed as the social dance came to a pleasant end. He bowed to the noblewoman facing him as she did the same in return and stepped away, his mood lifted. He danced with Gwen and danced with Ninianne before participating in another social dance.

Morgana returned just as that social dance finished.

“Is she alright?”

“Perfectly,” Morgana answered easily, stepping close to him and touching his arm. A warm and affectionate smile curled around her mouth. The red paint on her lips looked fresh. “Freya was just overwhelmed for a minute there. Bursts of happiness tend to tire her out. She still hasn’t grown accustomed to the feeling, not after all her suffering, but she’ll get there. Honestly, she lasted much longer tonight than I expected. Now, dear brother, I believe you owe me a dance.”


	61. Chapter Sixty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, folks. 
> 
> I hope it won't be too boring, but feel free to let me know what you think.

Winter came faster than he expected.

It brought his coronation with it.

The cascade of his new red cloak over his shoulders did nothing to distract him from the weight of expectant stares that burned into his back as he approached the dais with solemn purpose in his stride. His stomach tightened with nerves even as confidence squared his shoulders. Emrys pulsed against his sternum as Arthur lowered himself to his knees before the throne of Wessex. His cloak settled over his legs. He stared up at the large Pendragon banners that hung from the walls on either side of the throne and remembered the long line of ancestors immortalised in the annals of Albion. He hadn’t expected to see those banners waiting for his coronation to commence when he’d arrived in Dorchester a few weeks earlier, but he’d grown used to their presence since then. He’d grown used to seeing the golden dragon embroidered upon the red cloak that had sat in his new chambers until the sun dawned that morning. He swallowed and closed his eyes for the briefest instant: he had high standards to reach and this moment was just the beginning.

Arthur opened his eyes as Emrys pulsed against his sternum once more and he felt a rush of something powerful flood through his chest as cold sunlight spilled across the broad chamber, illuminating the crown sitting upon the throne. His waiting crown was nothing like the coronet Merlin had designed for him in Camelot. It was a simple thing; it wasn’t ostentatious or glimmering, its thick band of gold void of engravings and unadorned with even a single gemstone. It was common compared to the crowns he’d seen in his time as a manservant and a nobleman.

It spoke to him.

Arthur stared forward as the court librarian emerged from within the antechamber in an unhurried manner, her expression verging on serene. A sudden hush washed over the attendees spread out behind him like a wave at sea as Daralis came to stand beside the throne. She smiled down at him before lifting the crown with almost reverent hands.

“Are you willing to take the oath?”

“I am willing,” Arthur answered firmly, his chest inflating with that powerful rush as something unnameable flared in his stomach. His voice sounded loud to his ears. He knew it was a result of the sudden silence and perhaps a minor spell to ensure those in the corridors could hear the ceremony; not all those who wished to attend his coronation could fit in the throne room. Thinking about the people who’d now become his responsibility, Arthur released one deep breath and drew in another, his chin rising, his nerves fading at last.

“Will you solemnly promise and swear to govern the peoples of Wessex?”

“I solemnly swear so to do.”

“To the utmost of your power, will you respect and uphold the respective customs of the peoples throughout Wessex?”

“I will.”

“To the utmost of your power, will you cause merciful law and justice to be executed in all your judgements?”

“I will.”

Daralis raised the crown high over his head and Arthur swallowed thickly, sensing the burst of quiet anticipation rippling behind him. He continued to stare ahead as the court librarian lowered the crown to his head and announced solemnly, “By the sacred law vested in me...I crown you...Arthur, King of Wessex.”

Arthur rose to his feet in one surge and turned to face the crowd gathered in the throne room. His nearest and dearest were gathered at the front in their native and adopted Cornish splendour, his aunt first and foremost. Her handsome crown gleamed in the cold sunshine spilling through the throne room. She wore a pair of fine black trousers and a black leather coat over a deep purple bodice and a white tunic. The gryphon of Cornwall was embroidered upon the lapel of her coat. It was the first time he’d ever seen Merewald wear something other than her chainmail to a ceremony; her formidable axe was nowhere to be seen. Her fine brown boots climbed her strong calves. Her hair, adorned with yet another streak of iron grey, was swept back into a more elaborate braid than usual and strings of pearls had been woven throughout.

Gwen stood beside the Queen of Cornwall proudly; one of her hands rested on her belly, where her growing bump was doing its utmost to show despite the loose flow of her white gown. Her gown almost glowed where it sat against her darker skin. Her raven curls cascaded down over her bare shoulders. A silver circlet comprised of curling vines rested upon her brow. The design brought the Fae to mind at once and Arthur wondered whose skills were devoted to creating it for her. He also wondered whether it might have even been an heirloom from the vault. A red zircon teardrop settled over her forehead – a splash of violent colour against a backdrop of warmth and purity; Arthur could almost imagine his mother wearing such an exquisite piece.

Sir Lancelot cradled her other hand in the crook of his elbow and covered it with his own. He stood tall and proud in his chainmail and pristine white cloak. The hilt of his blade gleamed at his hip. His dark hair had grown a fraction since Arthur had seen him last and his face almost glowed with happiness: married life suited him. Or at least it seemed so to Arthur, who remembered well the saccharine stare held between Sir Lancelot and Gwen when the knot was tied at Lughnasadh.

Elyan stood between Sir Lancelot and Tom. Like their brother-in-law, Elyan wore the symbols of his Knighthood with an overwhelming amount of pride.

His adoptive father, however, looked somewhat out of place in all his handsome finery, especially when compared to the long years he’d spent wearing those sooty, and sweaty, tunics and trousers as he’d worked the forge in Camelot with Gwen. His rich dark eyes shone with pride. Tom looked as though he’d been waiting for this moment for as long as Arthur had known him.

That thought flooded Arthur with warmth.

Just knowing Tom had believed him capable of so much from the start made this moment twice as meaningful to Arthur. It brought a smile to his face as he gazed at his adoptive father, whose usual stubble had been shaved away, leaving him looking neat and smooth for the first time in years. Seeing his face so smooth under other circumstances might have been disheartening; Arthur could remember giggling as a young boy, doing his best to squirm away, Tom squashing him in a warm embrace and rubbing his prickling stubble against his face with an amused grin curling around his mouth.

Ninianne wore a red gown that made her seem like such a young lady, the style of it reminiscent of the various gowns he’d seen Morgana wear in the past. It wasn’t quite as mature as the gowns Morgana wore – there was still a strong glimpse of the young girl in her clothes and that young girl would remain for a while more. Ninianne and her parents stood with Sir Percival and the other Knights Arthur trusted most.

Two friends from Cornwall were absent from the ceremony, and those were Leon and Deorwynn. The former had remained at Tintagel Castle to oversee state affairs on behalf of the Queen and the latter was working, having formed a strong friendship with her mistress. She’d offered a sincere apology, but Arthur didn’t mind: her duties were as important as their friendliness.

Truthfully, the strength of their friendship had waned once the pair started rebuilding their lives in Cornwall. He’d had less and less time to speak with her, which had opened a gulf between them over time. Arthur was still fond of her, but his disappointment that Deorwynn couldn’t come to his coronation hadn’t been crushing as the absence of Leon and his stalwart companionship. He supposed Deorwynn had been a convenient friend while he’d been trapped within Camelot and suffocating under stringent laws set against him. He’d needed friendship and support when he’d been surrounded with aggression and hostility, and forced to work through the presence of bruises beneath his clothes. He’d needed warmth and kindness and Deorwynn had offered both without reserve after he’d saved her from bandits.

Arthur sent his gaze onwards.   

Morgana stood nearby, her raven tresses swept back on one side and pinned in place with a silver aigrette that sparkled in the cold sunlight. Her gown was a deep green that reminded Arthur of the forests through which he and Merlin had hunted together in the past. Her painted mouth curled around a pleased smirk as her fingers tangled with those of her maidservant amid the folds of her long and silken skirts.

“Long live the King!”

He’d expected to hear them and it was still almost a shock when the words burst forth from the court librarian at the top of her voice. Other people were soon repeating the cry, their voices rising to the rafters overhead. It swelled around him like a wave sweeping the shore and Arthur was struck with startled amazement. He’d been the one hoping for and dreaming of the moment he could shout that phrase with such feeling just over two years earlier. It was almost bewildering to see how far the tables had turned in such a short space of time.

The tables continued to turn as the weeks passed by, Arthur having ratified the alliance between his new realm and Nemeth during his first week as King of Wessex. He and Princess Mithian had discussed the matter at length when she’d arrived in Cornwall a few months earlier, her expression the gravest he’d ever seen her wear. He’d known the news about Merlin had hit her and King Rodor hard. He’d seen the spark of murderous fire in her eyes as she’d stared at him and he’d known it was meant for the King, who’d harmed the man she considered a brother in all but blood. Princess Mithian had arrived in Cornwall with a scroll from her father, bearing all the important matters relevant to the Nemetian realm to be discussed during the negotiations. Arthur had spent just over two weeks negotiating these matters with her, circling over two or three of them more than once as the pair of them failed to come to an agreement regarding such particulars.

Most importantly, he’d discussed possible trade routes with her, as well as the support of Nemetian forces during times of war, and the use of the Port of Gedref to help the various dissidents flee from Camelot and Mercia over the coming months. He’d instructed the people hiding from Bayard to wait until such safe passage could be confirmed with Nemeth. He’d informed them that he’d let them know as soon as it was safe to flee from the united realms and his mages would be waiting to welcome them to Wessex when the time came.

Princess Mithian had returned to Nemeth with duplicates of the almost completed document in hand. The two documents had lacked their signatures and seals only; King Rodor had sent a mage to him with the signed and sealed documents secured in a chest as soon as possible. The documents had waited for him to be crowned as King, and Arthur had signed the duplicates as soon as the armed subjects of the realm had finished swearing their fealty, which had been a rather long and tiring process.

He’d been surprised to find the process so exhausting, considering Arthur had to do nothing but accept the offered vows from the various men and women that went down on bended knee before him. Each of them had proffered their weapons to him with their heads bowed to show their faith and trust in him. It had almost overwhelmed him each time. He’d then returned their weapons to them as a symbol of his trust in their loyalty, their strength and bravery, and their kindness.

He’d then sent Viborg to deliver one of the completed documents to King Rodor, so that Nemeth would retain proof of the new alliance forged between their realms. She’d been tight with restrained aggression upon her return and had melted the moment her wife and child welcomed her home.

The winter grew harsh as Arthur secluded himself in the library, pouring over texts and scrolls as he studied the laws of the realm that now depended upon him and historical accounts reaching back through the centuries. He read about the endless battles that occurred throughout history, knowing a firm grasp of the past would help him secure the future. He stored vital segments and sometimes whole strategies in a chest in his mind as Emrys pulsed against his sternum in encouragement. He studied from noon until dusk until the winter began easing, whereupon he threw himself back into training.

Viborg was his favourite sparring partner. She was vicious and determined and never allowed him an inch – unlike several mages that backed out before a single one of them could wipe the floor with him. He’d shouted himself hoarse the last time that happened and the mage had swallowed thickly, glancing at the crystal on display, fearful of earning the wrath of Emrys for displeasing him. He’d snapped at the mage instead and sent him scarpering before sitting down on the damp grass and scrubbing his face with his hand. He’d still been fuming when Viborg found him and he’d scowled up at her, growling, “How am I supposed to improve when none of them will perform their best against me?! How am I supposed to _prepare_ for the worst when none of them will _show_ me their worst?!”

“Perhaps their worst disturbs them or perhaps their worst might disturb you instead.” Viborg had settled down in front of him and had looked at him sharply, her stare both focused and intense. She’d thumbed her hammer, which she’d rested across her crossed legs. “People might believe you’re the Once and Future King, but you’re also a Pendragon. You’ll have a piece of your father and other hateful kin inside you for as long as you live. Men and women from your bloodline have butchered our kind for being gifted through no fault of our own. Some people will never forget that. Can you begrudge them their reluctance to show you how terrible magic can be?”

“No.” Arthur had scowled down at his knees. “But I thought these people trusted me to welcome their magic. I’ve done the best I can to show that I’m not Uther. I’m not the men and women that slaughtered your kind without end. I’m not like that. I don’t ever want to be like that.”

“I know that.” Viborg had risen from the ground then. Her stare had turned expectant and she’d thrust her hand at him roughly, the action sharp and somewhat threatening, but Arthur hadn’t been afraid of her in the least. He’d grown more than accustomed to the tension and anger in her movements since he’d arrived in Dorchester the previous winter. Arthur had taken her hand at once and had allowed Viborg to haul him to his feet. He’d run a hand over his backside and had made a face when it came back covered in mud. Viborg had released a huff of laughter and had then tightened her grip around her fearsome hammer, thumbing the head with growing determination. “Come along, Your Majesty, and we’ll show them that exposure to darker spells for training purposes won’t lead to a single problem.”

Sparring with Viborg had been an awakening. Until then he’d never been exposed to true malevolence through mortal magic. He’d witnessed feats of impressive and immense power, certainly, but he’d been fortunate enough to avoid exposure to spells with the darkest intent. Arthur had succumbed to nausea more than once when he’d sensed that darker energy during his first training session with Viborg, his frame having grown more sensitive to mortal magic after his extensive exposure in the past. Viborg had given him a moment to get his heaving under control each time and then climb to his feet before beginning all over again. He’d detected the barest glimpse of approval whenever he climbed to his feet and moved back into position. His nausea had faded more and more with each training session and Arthur was proud of his improvement.

Arthur sent several practitioners skilled in the art of transformation to Camelot and Mercia in the spring, instructing them to watch the borders and main roads leading to the citadels and to send reports back to him whenever it was safe to do so. Preferably, as often as possible. Arthur, however, knew that such regular reports wouldn’t be feasible in the long run: it would bring too high a risk of being discovered within the borders. He couldn’t risk that. He couldn’t risk his subjects being captured and tortured for information at the behest of Bayard and so he left the pattern of their reports to their discretion in the end and trusted in their abilities.

He also sent a few to watch over the dissidents creeping through the lands and approaching the Port of Gedref steadily, eager to escape now that the winter storms had waned. He knew Sir Tor and Councillor Ares were doing their best to ensure the dissidents travelling in dribs and drabs wouldn’t be discovered. Arthur, however, knew fortune favoured the prepared and a few skilled guardians wouldn’t go amiss when it came to the safe passage of people needing to escape Bayard.

Ostara was almost upon them when Arthur summoned a scribe to his chambers and dictated a letter to King Alector of Tír-Mór, his predecessor having assured him that their connection to the Old Religion was stronger than the rest of the southern realms. He deliberated over each word with care before voicing them and watching the scribe add them to the letter, her handsome penmanship flowing with ease. He no longer envied the flowing scripts of others: he didn’t have the time or the energy; there were more important things to focus his attention on. Arthur signed and sealed the letter with his new ring once she’d finished scribing.

Arthur wiped his golden ring clean of red wax with a soft cloth and ran his thumb over the dragon engraved upon it. He wondered what happened to the original ring. He pushed the thought aside less than a moment later; it wasn’t important in the scheme of things. Honestly, he wouldn’t have worn the ring his father had worn while ripping Camelot apart at the seams. It would have ended up being melted down to make something new. It seemed more fitting to wear a new ring while heralding the start of a new era. Arthur raised his head and went on to say, his tone firm and commanding, “Take this to the outpost and have it couriered without delay, Rosalba. Thank you.”

Rosalba flashed a smile and took the letter from him before bowing, turning and slipping away, the last echo of her footsteps fading until nothing remained in her wake but warm silence.

His personal chambers were dull and boring compared to the guest chambers dotted around the castle. It lacked even the barest scrap of his personality, but Arthur preferred it that way; it meant he wouldn’t have much to miss when he returned to Camelot and married Merlin in the future. It was his intention to base the high court there once he’d brought more realms under his banner, though it would take a while to reach that day, but Arthur knew he’d get there. Albion would be united or he would die in the attempt: his future would take no other path while he was determined to unite the realms under his banner and rule with Merlin at his side.

Arthur nudged Emrys with a burst of his will power and picked up one of his spare quills expectantly, watching with familiar fascination as the magic swelled and enveloped the quill at once. He watched as it began morphing, its material makeup rearranging, contorting, and growing, until a small stone statue sat in his palm. It was a foot tall. Another burst of magic brought the figure to some semblance of life. Arthur watched as miniscule blue eyes crinkled up in a familiar fashion at the sight of him. He set the living statue down upon his writing desk and watched as it went exploring, familiar sword at its hip and raven hair lustrous.

It looked so much like Merlin and yet it wasn’t him. It had still been an odd comfort when he’d succumbed to the sweating sickness during his studies over the winter. He’d been found sprawling across the stone floor next to one of the various writing desks in the library, having collapsed from a wave of fatigue when he’d risen to find Daralis and ask her to fetch the court physician because he wasn’t feeling well. He’d forgotten to put his ancestral ring back on the previous morning, after taking it off when oiling the mechanism in his crossbow, and the sweating sickness must have set in before he’d remembered to put the ring back on that morning while heading to the library, leaving several hours for the sweating sickness to fester inside him. He’d emerged from the resultant delirium to find himself in his own bed and a miniature face peering at him in concern. His heart had almost stopped in his chest. A small hand had stroked the side of his nose while miniature knees dug into his cheek.

It hadn’t been comfortable in the least.

He hadn’t had the strength – or the will – to knock the miniature impersonator back with a swat of his hand. He’d cradled the miniature Merlin in his hand instead and stared at it for a long moment before placing it on the bedside locker and struggling into a seated position. He’d been tired and sweaty, aching after being wracked with such a powerful fever, and the court physician had been asleep in the chair at his bedside. He hadn’t enough mental faculties left to care about that fact as he’d scooped the miniature Merlin back up and set it down on his lap. He’d watched it take a step while looking at him and tumble down the folds of his blankets before scrambling back to its feet. He’d stared at the miniature splotches of pink that flared across familiar ears.

“You’re such an idiot.”

The words had escaped on a wistful sigh. He’d reached out automatically, his shaking finger brushing over soft raven locks. The miniature Merlin had gazed up at him in surprised wonder before beaming, that familiar and idiotic grin stretching from ear to ear, and Arthur had shoved the thing beneath his blanket an instant later when the court physician began stirring, blinking, jumping up from her chair to tend to him when she’d realised he was awake. Arthur still didn’t know why; he wasn’t ashamed of the little thing, but he didn’t want the household staff knowing about it. It was just for him to witness. He could still remember the softness in his heart when miniature Merlin had poked its head out from beneath the blankets as soon as the court physician was gone. Its raven hair had been a dishevelled mess and its face had been flushed from the heat under there. He’d watched it pant for breath and then start climbing, miniature hands fisting the blankets and feet digging into the meat of his thigh.

He’d had Emrys replicate the procedure more than once since then.

Arthur watched miniature Merlin drop into one of the drawers left open and continue exploring, rummaging, wondering what on earth the little thing could find so fascinating about scraps of parchment and odd trinkets he’d found in the market that reminded him of his lover. He discovered a moment later that the living statue was after the brass dragon he’d purchased a week earlier. Grinning, his amusement growing, Arthur pulled the trinket from the drawer and watched miniature Merlin dangle helplessly, arms wrapped around the brass neck and face nuzzling against its snout. He set them both down on the writing desk and watched them cuddle for a long moment before sighing, nudging with his will power, and watching miniature Merlin revert back to its original state.

“One day, your dragons will have you back. You’ll hatch more eggs and we’ll help raise those hatchlings together.” Arthur spoke quietly, each word uttered solemnly, as he returned the brass dragon to its place and closed the drawer. He opened another and withdrew his map of Albion and Hibernia. He moistened his lips and studied it as he’d studied it each evening since the winter storms waned.

Resolve burned in the pit of his stomach.

Tír-Mór was a small realm. It was nestled between Nemeth and Amata and kissed the northern borders of Kent. He was almost certain King Alector would be willing to negotiate an alliance with him. If anything, the ruler should be eager; the united front that Wessex and Cornwall presented was large and profitable in areas that Tír-Mór couldn’t grasp. As far as he could remember, that realm profited from grains more than iron ore or other merchantable goods. Wessex had an impressive series of mines running, sourcing iron ore and other materials vital for trade. Both Cornwall and the northern regions of Wessex had a continuous stock of several varieties of seaweed – edible and an excellent source of fertiliser for the fields.

Harvesting seaweed took minimal effort and had numerous benefits.

Firstly, unlike manure – used across Albion as a common fertiliser – decomposition wasn’t required for seaweed to be considered beneficial. Laver, actually, was often fused with bread to treat the sweating sickness along the western shores of Albion. He’d been treated with laverbread himself when recovering from the sweating sickness during the previous winter.

Secondly, seaweed could be used as mulch and it wouldn’t act like kindling, much unlike bark mulch – which had resulted in several fires in the farms near the edge of the Darkling Wood over the years. Just a single spark left to smoulder could prove ruinous when dealing with bark mulch. Fortunately, magic had been on hand to quell the flames before the heat of the growing fires became too immense for even skilled mages to handle with ease.

Thirdly, seaweed was a wonderful method of dealing with pests: slugs hated seaweed with a passion because of the natural salt and sharp edges. Other pests disliked seaweed for the same reasons. No cabbages would lose their lives to such pests while seaweed was hard at work on the farms at the western edges of Cornwall and Wessex.

Fourthly, seaweed aerated the soil and would remain firm against stiff winds that often blustered across Albion. It wouldn’t be blown from the fields unless a powerful storm hit the farms.

Tír-Mór had minimal access to the sea on the eastern coast of Albion and the chance of the realm benefiting from seaweed was slim as it stood now. However, if King Alector forged an alliance with Arthur, such benefits would help Tír-Mór grow stronger, and that would be the top of the agenda for a monarch governing a realm.

Confidence squared his shoulders.

Arthur reached for his quill and a new sheet of parchment before beginning to make a list of matters he’d be willing to negotiate with King Alector upon receiving a response to his diplomatic inquisition.


	62. Chapter Sixty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for how long this chapter took to finish. I've had so little energy, between starting an exercise routine and then coming down with chicken pox. 
> 
> Thank you for your patience.
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think. I appreciate all of your feedback.

It was late spring now and King Alector was much younger than he expected. He couldn’t have been more than nineteen years old. He looked as fresh as a daisy, though his scalp lacked even a single strand of hair, and his skin looked as warm and rich as honey, which appeared stark against his loose white tunic.

He hadn’t even bothered to lace his tunic correctly, Arthur noted while doing his best to resist the urge to frown in increasing irritation: the curve of his defined pectoral muscle was visible. An inch or so more and a nipple would be in full view. Just the sight of it aggravated Arthur. It went against the etiquette he’d learned during his years as a manservant and the finer lessons he’d learned since becoming Crown Prince of Cornwall as well. He continued to assess King Alector, doing so discreetly, wondering whether his youth would lead to problems during the negotiation period.

Fine black riding leathers showcased muscular legs. Dark green eyes glimmered like gemstones in the afternoon sunshine as King Alector dismounted from his dappled horse with a spring in his step. His stride bore the sort of youthful enthusiasm that made Arthur feel ancient in comparison.

His hand twitched with the urge to reach for his ancestral ring.

His spine straightened instead and Arthur stepped forward immediately, his voice warm and welcoming as he greeted King Alector.

“Your Majesty, thank you for the warm welcome.” King Alector grasped his arm at once and Arthur was surprised to feel the firm hand settle around his forearm without an ounce of hesitation. It was almost disconcerting how confident he was for such a young man. “I can’t express how pleased I was to learn you’re still alive and well. Father told me such wondrous tales of your previous lives when I was a child.”

“Is that so?” Arthur squashed the urge to do a triumphant shuffle upon hearing that confession. He had a feeling it wouldn’t be so difficult to persuade King Alector to consider his point of view now that he knew the younger monarch knew about him and his future path. It took some effort to keep his face from showing just how much the confession pleased him now. Arthur beckoned the servants lining up behind him to start moving and watched them dart past to help with luggage for a moment. He focused his attention upon King Alector once more and his smile deepened a fraction as he went on to say, “Perhaps we might dine together and you could regale me with some of them this evening, but I’m sure you must be fatigued after your travels and would like to retire for the time being. Viborg will show you where you’ll be residing for the remainder of your visit.”

“I’d like that.” King Alector smiled in return and inclined his head as a mark of respect and sign of agreement. He stepped forward as Arthur stepped aside to let him precede him into the castle. Viborg strode ahead of them and would soon lead the visiting monarch to the guest chambers waiting for him. He and Arthur walked abreast with each other for the moment. “I must confess I’ve been eager to speak with you since I received your letter last month. I’m certain our discussions will lead to something worthwhile.”

Arthur was certain it would as well.

Excitement swelled inside him as he parted with King Alector after a brief word of farewell and turned down a different corridor, struggling to keep the beaming grin off his face until he disappeared around the corner. Emrys pulsed against his sternum and continued to do so until Arthur concealed himself in his chambers.

“This is so much better than I’d hoped for!” Arthur spoke in a rush as familiar phantom hands removed his crown from his head and stowed it in the chest concealed within the wardrobe before returning. Emrys ran phantom hands over his hair for a moment. Arthur found his nerves were almost dancing with excitement as the future loomed even closer, tantalising him with possibilities. “I was hoping for a simple treaty, but it seems like he could be willing to take this a step further. Can you believe it? Our fate might be falling into place as we speak!”

Emrys kissed his forehead in hopeful celebration and then kissed the bridge of his nose. Arthur melted immediately, a stuttering laugh escaping him as he leaned forward and accepted each kiss with eagerness. His eyes fluttered closed. His hands itched to curl around strong, but slender shoulders. He was almost boneless when those phantom lips found his mouth at last.

“Are you distracting your King,” mused Arthur, eyes drifting open once more and growing heavier, his lips on the verge of tenderness after a deep and arduous kiss that brought his knees close to buckling. He staggered back against the door behind him and gripped the frame as those phantom lips began trailing downwards over his jaw and then his neck. His head thumped against the wood as a phantom thigh nudged his own apart and pressed against him with just enough pressure to tease. He tried to rock down against it as his manhood hardened so fast that his head was left spinning, but two strong phantom hands pinned him in place. An eager moan escaped him at once and his muscles twitched with the urge to keep rocking, but Arthur released a calming breath and then drew in another before sighing, “I approve.”

Arthur continued to be distracted for the next hour and then dressed some time later, his mouth curling around a satisfied grin and his arse aching. His muscles felt stretched and used. Just the thought sent an exquisite shiver down his spine. He chuckled when Emrys trailed several languid kisses along the nape of his neck and then over his shoulder, taking advantage of the swath of skin bared while his tunic remained unlaced. Phantom hands gripped his hips in an attempt to pull him back into the haze of that swirling magic. He glanced over his shoulder and wasn’t surprised when familiar lips found his. Arthur sighed into the kiss for a moment and then drew away, releasing a sigh and murmuring, “You know I have things to do this afternoon. Petitions won’t hear themselves.”

Emrys seemed to deflate behind him.

“Aren’t you in an eager mood today,” Arthur asked as he chuckled warmly, allowing Emrys to cling to him for a moment longer. His mouth curled around a smile even as he longed to reach up and tangle a hand in nonexistent raven hair. A warm wave of amusement washed across his face despite the flare of pain in his chest at the absence of his lover. “You needn’t worry; I’m not finished with you in the least. I just have things to do first. You can have me tonight – once King Alector retires to his chambers – as often as you like or as often as I can manage. Whichever comes first.”

Emrys seemed to sigh and then released him completely, spiralling back into the crystal sitting warm against his skin. Chuckling fondly, Arthur shook his head and continued straightening himself up. He ensured he was pristine before heading to the throne room with the crown adorning his head once again.

Arthur settled in the throne with more care than usual – he hadn’t been taken with so much forceful passion in quite a while and he was feeling the resultant aches now. He refrained from smirking, knowing he’d look as satisfied as the cat that licked the cream. It had been invigorating; Emrys had sucked him down to the base of his manhood and had tormented Arthur for what seemed like forever before bringing him to a shattering climax that would have brought him to his knees but for the powerful force keeping him pinned in place. He’d then been turned around and shoved up against the door, his phantom lover opening him up while he’d still been boneless with pleasure and then easing inside to stoke the flames until Arthur was once again an inferno of need and desire. Emrys had then taken him hard enough to rattle the door in its frame. He was certain the whole castle would have heard his guttural moans and strangled sobs of pleasure were it not for the thick gag silencing him. Even after a year of experiencing such ecstasy, Arthur still wasn’t over how natural and exquisite it felt to be pinned in place and ravaged. It was still a shock that he could be so responsive to such familiar delights. He wondered whether it was related to the connection he shared with Merlin or whether it was just a part of himself that he hadn’t known was there until Merlin first claimed him in that miserable excuse for a bed.

Perhaps it was a mixture of the two.

It was hard to tell.

Arthur cleared his head with some effort and focused on the matter at hand. He couldn’t listen to petitions while remembering the vigorous and exquisite ravaging he’d received earlier. His back straightening and his shoulders squaring, Arthur gestured for the guards to let the first petitioner through. He was focused and attentive as he listened to the petitioner, nodding in understanding, and was quick to grant the funds to help repair her cart. He continued to be attentive for the next petitioner and the one after, and soon he wasn’t certain how much time had passed as he listened to his people expressing their needs for aid in this matter or that matter, gazing up at him in hope or frustration. He’d grown accustomed to the discomfort involved in being seated upon a throne over the last few months – not to mention the few times he’d been trusted with handling petitions while he’d been in Cornwall. He’d learned how to be diplomatic. He’d learned to be thoughtful before passing judgement over a matter, no matter how trivial. No matter how much it made his heart thunder in his chest and his hands grip the arms of his throne with some sense of emotion.

Merewald had prepared him well for this. He was still learning, but Arthur was growing more and more confident in his abilities and his ongoing reign.

Merlin would be proud of him.

Just like Emrys was proud of him.

That knowledge kept his mood afloat even when his backside grew numb from sitting down for so long. He was almost certain several hours had passed when he brought the session to a close with a tired nod of his head – the various guards serving in the throne room were more than accustomed to his signals now and the transition was quick.

Arthur rose from his throne and winced as his knees cracked. His back ached from sitting straight for so long. It was another sign that he was aging faster than he’d like. At least it was preferable to the whispers about his continued status as an unmarried man. He knew the common people serving him never meant to cut him so deeply, but he also knew several nobles were sceptical of his continued refusal to begin courting, no matter how beneficial a potential match would be for the realm he governed. He was a promised man and he’d said as much.

“Your Majesty,” Lord Hadrian had answered carefully, being one of several nobles with no connection to druidism. He’d kept his gaze lowered as a mark of respect and in acknowledgement of his reign. “It might be upsetting to consider, but we can’t be certain Merlin will be the same man we knew when he emerges from that prison. Whatever damage Bayard inflicted upon his mind might be irreparable.”

“You think I should abandon him.” Arthur had closed the distance between himself and the ageing warrior, his shoulders squared and his expression thunderous. Emrys had reacted to his anger immediately, surging and crackling around him. Lord Hadrian had taken an immediate step back without ever being surprised at his reaction. His anger had been cold beneath the surface of his skin and it had chilled him to the bone even as Emrys continued to crackle around him like a miniaturised storm. “You’d better start listening immediately, because I’m not going to repeat this. We all suffer, Lord Hadrian. What matters is the love and support we receive when we do. You _suspect_ he’ll be different? I _know_ he will be and I don’t care. I don’t care that he mightn’t be as social or as charming, or that he might have nightmares about whatever he went through. I love him and that’ll never change. Merlin can resent me all he wants when I set him free at last. He can hate me for all the suffering he went through because of me and the choices I made in the past. But I will never abandon him. Is that understood?”

“Your Majesty,” Lord Hadrian had dared to answer, his tone insistent and yet still careful. He’d ignored the stares from several of the nobles in the council chamber, who bristled at the mere suggestion of leaving Merlin aside when pursuing the future unification of Albion. “I never meant to offend you. But I believe more time should be spent considering whether a match between you can ever benefit this realm or the unification of Albion in the future. Perhaps you won’t care how damaged he’ll be – and I find that admirable – but that doesn’t mean the changes in him won’t affect the people depending upon their sovereigns to look after them. Your Majesty, you need to take that into consideration before setting your decisions in stone.”

“Have you ever loved the woman you married?”

Arthur had watched Lord Hadrian falter, his expression growing hesitant and somewhat indignant. Not enough to refute the suggestion that he hadn’t. Lord Hadrian had opened his mouth to argue all the same. Arthur had been quicker, his voice hardening even as it grew quieter. He’d stepped even closer until Lord Hadrian could almost feel the magic crackling against his clothes.

“Don’t take me for a fool for an instant: I know you haven’t. I can see it on your damned face. You married for convenience and power, like countless other members of the aristocracy, and so you have no idea what this feels like. You’ve no idea what it feels like to know you’re responsible for the imprisonment and emotional torture of the person you love. You’ve no idea what it feels like to be told the person you’re going to wed isn’t good enough to stand at your side. It isn’t his fault his uncle is a callous bastard and I won’t let people take it out on him. Merlin was born to stand beside me and you’d best remember that.”

He’d strode from the council chamber before Lord Hadrian could utter a single word more and he’d shut the door on his way, quietly, knowing quiet anger was so much more powerful than slamming a door in his wake. He’d stormed through the castle to conceal himself in his chambers and he’d thrown his few breakable possessions in a fit of anger before sitting at his writing desk with a laboured sigh.

His lower back aching and his mind mulling over the memory, Arthur returned to his chambers to find a light snack and a steaming bath waiting for him. His mouth curled around a grateful smile at the sight. He’d have to thank the household staff later; the lot of them were warmer and more welcoming than he felt he deserved at times. He knew he had a terrible penchant for snapping, especially after an exhausting or stressful day, but he made sure to apologise each time and offer the witness to his temper the next morning off. His offer fell on deaf ears usually, so he kept a note of them in a small journal he’d commissioned for that purpose. He was certain such an account of leisure time owed would come in handy; someone would come looking at some point and he’d be able to grant time off as needed. He’d have remembered the hours anyway, given his aptitude for numbers and counting, but it was better to keep a record all the same. As a ruler, Arthur needed to remain accountable for all official decisions occurring in the realm and that included doling out leisure time to the household staff. 

He pushed such thoughts out of his head and it wasn’t long until Arthur sank down in the steaming bath with a sigh of pleasure. He draped his arms along the rim and tipped his head back against the folded cloth. He drifted in and out of slumber as Emrys tended to him with a soft cloth and soap. He was then dried and urged to sprawl on the bed while skilled phantom hands worked the knots of tension out of his back and shoulders. Arthur couldn’t stop groaning and sighing, his frame melting into a puddle as Emrys eased his aches and pains away, leaving him pliant and comfortable against the bedclothes. He dozed for another hour before Emrys woke him with tender kisses and a hand carding through his hair, urging him out of the bed with gentle care.

His mind struggled to wake as Emrys dressed him carefully, holding him steady, but moving his pliant limbs as needed. Arthur felt like a stumbling colt without the support provided. A warm chuckle escaped him when Emrys finished dressing him and Arthur smiled into the kiss that came a moment later, gentle hands framing his face tenderly; several long and exquisite moments passed during which Arthur let himself be kissed and cradled with deep affection. He could spend the rest of forever like this: cradled against someone that loved him without reserve and kissed until his lips were tingling with it. It would be even better when Merlin and Emrys merged once again.

Just the thought of pressing his face against soft hair and trailing his lips against pale skin again made him ache for their reunion. Just the thought of staring into those eyes again made his heart leap in his chest. He couldn’t imagine how their reunion might pan out. He wondered whether there’d be tears. Arthur hoped not. He hated seeing Merlin weep – no matter how euphoric those tears might be. He suspected there’d be a lot of groping, and frantic hands roaming, both of them ensuring the other weren’t figments of their imaginations. He couldn’t wait to reassure Merlin that he was alive and well and determined to bring their promised future into being, no matter how long it took. He couldn’t wait to ensure Merlin knew he was loved at all times. That he never forgot about him. Not for a moment.

That determination burned inside him as Arthur settled at the dining table and drew the light snack left for him closer. It was a collection of some of his favourites – though not enough to fill him before he dined with King Alector in an hour or so. His mouth curled around another grateful smile. His household staff knew him too well. Arthur ate his snack slowly, sighing, appreciating each mouthful. He recalled – with far too much ease and an equal amount of discomfort – a time when he couldn’t even look at food without feeling sick to his stomach. He could remember the muscles in his throat closing up when he tried to swallow. He could remember his obsession with walking through Tintagel Castle at all hours. He could remember when the visible quiver of his flesh made him want to vomit. He still wasn’t quite content with how he looked...but he’d improved somewhat over the last few months.

Arthur made a point of standing in front of his mirror each morning and evening whenever the communication spells weren’t working, focusing his attention upon some part of him that once earned his hatred. He did his best to turn that loathing into something more positive. He’d managed to reach an emotion closer to blank acceptance that some parts of him would remain thick and padded. He’d managed to accept that an inch or two of padding spread out over his muscles was normal and to be expected for a warrior; there was nothing wrong in seeing his flesh quiver. It was normal. He didn’t appreciate his reflection. He didn’t love it. But this blank acceptance was far better than loathing the sight of his reflection in the mirror.

It was a step in the right direction.

It wasn’t long until Arthur was working, his broad shoulders hunched over several vital reports and his brow furrowed with concentration. He worked until a knock on the door preceded the arrival of King Alector, and Arthur stowed his paperwork away, allowing his phantom lover to erase the ink staining his hands before rising from his chair. He opened the door himself and welcomed the foreign ruler inside without preamble – concealing his relief that he’d covered up at last while doing so. Arthur wasn’t in the mood for poor manners. Three chambermaids followed less than a moment later, one setting a carafe of wine upon the dining table while the other two bore a platter of steaming food each. Arthur invited King Alector to take a seat at the dining table as the chambermaids scurried back out and left the pair alone together, leaving them to their important discussions.

“You’re fortunate that I was crowned last year,” King Alector began eventually, his attention focused upon the steaming meal in front of him. Arthur glanced up and observed him cutting his lamb methodically, dividing each new piece into smaller halves until he could cut no more. Something akin to grief flickered across his features for a brief moment and then he looked up at Arthur, a mask of calm acceptance falling into place. He smiled then and it was almost as bright as his earlier exuberance. “Cassander, an elder sibling, ruled before me and he wouldn’t have appreciated that letter in the least. He’d have burned it as soon as it arrived.”

“Oh?”

“Your Majesty, Cassander was jealous and bitter, often convinced our father preferred the people in those historical tales over his own children. It wasn’t true. He just couldn’t see that. He’d have been detrimental for Albion.”

“What happened to him?”

“It was consumption.” King Alector reached for the carafe and poured himself a goblet before arching an eyebrow in question. He set the wine back down when Arthur declined without uttering a word. “Fate dealt the cards needed in the end: I ceased training for the priesthood as soon as I heard and now I’m here to foster an arrangement with the Once and Future King. It might be upsetting, even heartbreaking, but Fate knows what to do with the cards in her hand. She knows what Albion needs and I trust in that – as we all should.”

Arthur refrained from answering, his brow furrowing as he wondered how someone could be so calm and accepting of death – the death of a loved one in particular. It boggled him. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t be so calm or accepting, if Morgana or his adoptive siblings passed away, no matter the reason. Arthur realised the young man sitting opposite him must have been far stronger than he looked – even at an age so tender, so impressionable and vulnerable. He supposed someone who’d studied with the Catha could face whatever obstacles were necessary, even if it hurt. He’d learned during his studies that the Catha demanded their novices to face hardships so immense that even the strongest Knight would quail in terror – and all so that the secrets of the priesthood might never be revealed to outsiders undeserving of their knowledge.

It seemed barbaric to him.

Honestly, it was difficult to imagine such a vibrant young man enduring such torments and emerging unscathed. Arthur stole another discreet glance at King Alector, aware now that he wasn’t confident for nothing. His confidence arose from knowing he could face whatever trials arose during his reign – no matter how delicate or frightening. King Alector had faced worse as a novice training for the priesthood. Arthur mulled the matter over in silence as he focused on his supper, savouring the effort from the kitchen staff and the burst of flavour within each morsel.

King Alector regaled him with several tales during supper, and Arthur listened intently, fascinated and somewhat uncomfortable at the same time. It was strange to know he’d lived before and remembered nothing, but for what he’d learned from others. It was strange to hear tales of Artura Pendragon being chosen to run from the Horned God – to run from the witch that would become her wife.

Arthur could almost imagine it: the nerves writhing under her skin when letting her dressing gown slip free of her shoulders while the witch donned her crown of antlers. He could imagine the thunder in her chest when the witch tilted her head and her breath misted around her in the darkness. He could almost hear the leaves crunching underfoot as his namesake barrelled through the Darkling Wood. He could almost feel the adrenaline pumping through her veins.

Swallowing thickly, Arthur turned his face away, ignoring the warmth that travelled down his spine to pool between his thighs and pouring himself a goblet of wine. He remembered that he’d once imagined Merlin chasing him through the Darkling Wood and then ravaging him against the undergrowth. It seemed he hadn’t just imagined it – he’d lived through an alternate version of that vision in another lifetime. He’d borne another name and shape and personal past when his lover had tackled him to the forest floor and took him with vigorous abandon. Arthur wondered how often his fantasies were echoes of moments from lives he’d lived before. He wondered how often his dreams were ghosts of forgotten memories connecting his soul to countless lives that came before him. He wondered whether Merlin had ever wondered about such a thing, knowing he’d walked the earth more than once and in various forms. He’d ask him as soon as the chance arose.

Arthur pushed the thought out of his head and focused upon King Alector, willing himself not to blush for having been distracted for even a moment. He listened to another tale about one of his previous lives: a man who’d faced a raging boar, a dagger in his hand and his favoured hound – Cavall – at his side. His heart ached upon hearing the hound was gored upon the tusks of that boar, taking a fatal blow meant for the High King, and Arthur swallowed against the phantom whimper and whine that echoed down inside him.

He remembered the growing pup he’d left behind in Camelot.

His heart ached all over again.

He didn’t even want to contemplate the number of milestones he’d missed since he’d fled his home. He couldn’t imagine how much Cabal had grown in his absence. Cabal had been so young; the chance that the adult hound would even recognise him now was slimmer than he could bear.

Arthur just hoped Merlin managed to keep Cabal close despite his imprisonment. He hoped Merlin managed to keep him safe. Just the thought of Bayard getting his murderous and vengeful hands upon his pup made his heart seize in his chest. He knew the callous bastard would murder an innocent pup to get back at them for uniting against him. It hadn’t been a secret that he and Merlin adored the growing bundle of energy; Cabal was the closest he’d ever come to taking care of his own small person before fleeing from Camelot. He could still remember the warmth and softness of his fur, the cold of his wet nose as Cabal snuffled at his face. He could remember the evenings spent cuddling, sprawling on the floor with Cabal and Merlin.

Arthur coughed to clear his throat and King Alector fell silent immediately, his expression polite and somewhat expectant. He took a calming sip of wine and went on to say, “I think we should discuss the real reason we dined together this evening. Wouldn’t you agree?”

King Alector smiled.    


	63. Chapter Sixty-Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warm thanks to all those still reading; here is another chapter. 
> 
> I'm anxious to hear your thoughts.

Arthur brought the small realm under his banner without too much difficulty, though he’d been pained to witness a third of the mages set down their weapons and walk out some minutes after Arthur was crowned in the wake of his predecessor, who’d abdicated in his favour. His predecessor had named him the heir of the realm upon returning, an agreement reached while the pair dined together, though it had been strange to see such a confident monarch so eager to serve someone else. Arthur had raised a hand to stop the guards that attempted to block the path of those unwilling mages and watched them leave with rising regret and resignation.

It wasn’t possible to force obedience and continue to reign with respect from the people that made the realm what it was. Obedience must be given freely, trustfully, and Arthur couldn’t force such trust to bloom where fear dwelled. He would never force those who feared his name to kneel before him. He remembered too well the outrage and disgust and terror he’d experienced when Bayard forced him to his knees before the assembled court in Camelot. He would never put another person through such coercion for as long as he lived.

Some of the mages might change their minds in the future.

Others might not.

It wasn’t for him to decide.

Arthur had stood tall and proud instead as Alector lowered himself to his knees before the assembled court and bowed his head before offering his solemn vow to serve beneath him as regent. He’d accepted the oath with gratitude and had beckoned his new underling to rise before him and join him upon the raised dais. He and Alector had clasped each other, the pair of them smiling brightly, both of them hopeful for the future ahead despite the walkout during the previous ceremonies.

He’d feasted and celebrated throughout the evening, engaging with various nobles and mages and serving staff alike. He’d spent his time networking, doing his best to forge a level of camaraderie between himself and the unfamiliar members of the foreign court now nestled under his banner. He’d known he’d need that level of camaraderie at some point in the future.

He’d sidestepped several blatant flirtations sent his way, his smile even and polite and _never_ encouraging, though Arthur had to push down the sudden surge of amusement that rose when Emrys pulsed against his sternum in a possessive and somewhat protective fashion. He’d swallowed the almost eager moan that rose in his throat when a familiar tendril of magic wound around his wrist and started squeezing, the rising pressure exquisite and just the right side of threatening, recognising the promise buried therein. He’d retired to the chambers set aside for him for his visit an hour or so later, his stomach tight with anticipation and his concealed skin tingling, knowing the flirtations he’d suffered through would lead to a night of exquisite surrender.

He’d spent part of those private hours of the night kneeling, his knees spread on the mattress for some semblance of balance and his hands bound behind his back. He’d trusted his phantom lover when the blindfold was secured behind his head carefully, mindful of his hair. His heart had hammered in his chest as he’d been left stewing in the anticipation as the silence settled around him like a warm blanket.

Arthur hadn’t expected to be denied the familiar blunt head of that phantom length when he’d opened his mouth to welcome it inside as soon as it rubbed against his bottom lip. He’d swallowed the whine of frustrated displeasure even as he’d leaned forward to chase after the familiar feeling, but he’d been pushed back at once. He’d struggled against the forceful grip weighing down on his shoulders for a moment before stilling, breathing hard and heavy, his own manhood aching with need between his thighs and warmth pooling in his stomach. He’d tried to follow that phantom manhood thrice more – the third and fourth time earning a sharp swat to his arse that resulted in a startled moan of pleasure as he’d jolted from the unexpected strikes – before managing to remain in place despite the growing need to feel the weight of that phantom manhood on his tongue. He wasn’t given what he craved until he’d managed it and then he’d moaned eagerly, his lips spreading around the familiar length that slid deep with possessive care.

Phantom hands had carded through his hair, gentle and rewarding, before gripping several locks. He’d been allowed to work the length in his mouth of his own volition and he’d done so languidly, moaning, luxuriating in the chance to take his time and use all the skills he’d developed over the last year. Bobbing his head had caused his scalp to tug against the hair gripped within those firm hands and he’d shivered with growing pleasure each time. He’d continued to bask in the pleasure until long after his jaw began aching, his techniques growing sloppy, and then Emrys had urged him to stop before guiding him down until his shoulders were pressed against the mattress. Phantom fingers had tormented him until he’d grown desperate beneath his lover, panting and pleading, pushing back against those questing fingers with an eagerness that used to humiliate him. He’d started cursing when he’d continued to be denied the press of that familiar length where it needed to be and he’d almost choked on a sob of relief when it was given to him once he’d surrendered to the knowledge that he wasn’t getting what he wanted until Emrys wanted him to.

Emrys had taken him slowly, but forcefully, each grind deep and possessive and exquisite. He’d melted beneath the phantom hand that ran along his back and settled at the nape of his neck. He’d moaned when that hand gripped in a possessive fashion. He’d spread his thighs even wider, allowing his phantom lover a fraction deeper, marvelling at how good it felt to be in such a position. He’d whined and shuddered when the other hand slid around to tease his neglected nipples. He’d grown hoarse as he pleaded and goaded and Emrys ignored his whispers all the while. He’d let himself be possessed. He’d let himself be taken apart and then reassembled until he’d reached the pinnacle of his ecstasy, those phantom hands soothing him and praising him until he was sated and almost boneless against the mattress. He’d let himself be blindfolded all night long, magic enveloping him and cradling him and loving him until he’d drifted into his dreamscape.  

Arthur spent more than a fortnight in Tír-Mór. He spent most of his diplomatic visit reviewing the laws of the realm and comparing them to those in place in Wessex – the current seat of his power. The seat of his power would change location as soon as Camelot became available to him once again and he could spend the remainder of his existence ruling beside the man he loved. Largely, Arthur found the laws resembled each other heavily, though he did discover a few areas that needed amendment. He marked them and made revisions for the local regent to read through once Arthur returned to the seat of his power.

“Alector,” Arthur began quietly, standing on the steps leading out of the castle less than a week after he’d finished reviewing the laws and preparing to leave while the sun was still shining, “I can’t express how grateful I am that I was granted the chance to rule here. It can’t have been easy, relinquishing control to an outsider, no matter how eager you seemed in the beginning. You risked so much in doing so.”

“It was worth the risk then and I’m sure it’ll be worth the risk in the future.” Alector brushed imagined lint from his shoulder, his warm complexion handsome against the dark blue robes he wore. His other hand gripped a tall staff etched with several familiar runes from the Old Religion. Apparently, it was the staff he’d been given when he’d become a novice in the priesthood. “Our realm and Wessex aren’t dissimilar; our lines both began as stewardships after the High Queen of Albion drove the Saxons from our shores. Most of our laws were ratified when she ruled the united realms centuries ago. Your Majesty, being one part of a larger whole is no hardship when the greater good is at stake. I fear it’ll be at stake again at some point in the near future. We can’t allow the Saxons to gain another foothold here: we must band together and repel them before our realms can be overwhelmed one at a time. Kent has faced repeated waves of them over the last few months.”

“I’ve heard as much.” Arthur nodded gravely, aware that the lands to the south of them had lost a village or two to the invaders since the spring began. Resolve emboldened him. He clapped the regent on the shoulder, his touch respectful and encouraging, but also firm and somewhat commanding. “Alector, I want to secure an alliance with them. I trust the court here can handle the negotiations. See what can be offered from here and I’ll arrange to send further aid from Cornwall. I must return to Wessex in the meantime: I have further plans to set in motion.”

“Your Majesty,” Alector murmured immediately, bowing his bald head with a reverence that still discomfited him somewhat. His hand tightened around his staff when he straightened and gazed at Arthur, the dark green gemstones of his eyes sparkling with purpose and vigour. “Your trust won’t be misplaced here. We’ll do our utmost to form a strong alliance with them and I’ll send word once the negotiations begin.”

Arthur inclined his head and bid him farewell before turning, striding across the grass until he reached the hippogriff waiting nearby, her black feathers shining. Hecate trilled when Arthur mounted her, having spent far too much time on the ground while he’d been working, and he knew she couldn’t wait to be in the air again. He ran a gentle hand over the feathers in front of him before seizing the reins and urging her into action.

Arthur and Hecate were in the air less than a minute later, her powerful wings propelling them higher and higher. His head tipped back as the wind swirled around him in cool eddies that caressed him like an old friend or perhaps a familiar lover. It was hard to believe he’d once been so terrified to experience such a pleasure. He still feared it at times – when the wind was strong and vicious in particular; it wasn’t such a friend in those moments. His fear was more than natural: men weren’t designed to be in the air, after all. Arthur relaxed into the saddle and let Hecate sweep him away, bearing him across the sky, gliding on the winds whenever she could. He trusted her to keep him safe and secure – no matter the weather that might rise between their beginning and their destination.

Hours passed like this.

His muscles were stretched and aching when Hecate landed just outside of Dorchester, his thighs quivering with fatigue when he dismounted late in the evening. He led his feathered companion into the town and to the stables – where the tired hands were quick to offer their help. He’d instructed them on how to care for Hecate when he’d arrived the previous winter and the lot of them had been quick studies. Arthur knew he could trust them with her wellbeing, so he passed Hecate on to them after pressing a kiss to her beak and running a loving hand over her feathers. Hecate trilled and pushed her head against his for a moment before letting herself be led away, her talons clacking and her hooves clopping against the stone.

Arthur approached the castle slowly, doing his best to stamp down on the grimace of discomfort that threatened to rise with each step taken. He forced himself to walk straight despite the ache. He’d suffered worse aches and pains when he’d lived in Camelot. He stopped a chambermaid along the way, greeted her warmly, and asked her to have a bath prepared for him as soon as her schedule allowed. The bath was being filled with steaming water when Arthur reached his chambers. Arthur offered warm words of gratitude as the chambermaids streamed in and out through the door, burdened with buckets of steaming water and fresh towels. He sank down at his dining table and watched until the last chambermaid murmured his title before slipping away, leaving him to bathe in peace and solitude.

His aching thighs protesting, Arthur undressed himself with care and climbed into the bath waiting. He eased himself down into the steaming water, arranging himself into a position that wouldn’t pull too much on his overstretched and fatigued muscles. A quiet moan escaped Arthur, who rested his head against the cloth cushioning the rim and basked in the exquisite heat. His eyes fluttered closed in muted pleasure. He loved bathing, both the heat that filtered through skin that turned a soft red with time and the simple nature of it. He loved the phantom hand that smoothed his hair back as it grew damp from the steam wafting around him. Arthur hummed into the tender kiss that came a moment later, his mouth curling around a small smile as magic wound around him and cradled him close. He loved being secured in the knowledge that he was loved without reserve. His phantom lover let him rest for a while before beginning the process of washing, starting with his feet and ending with his hair.

Arthur let himself be helped out of the water and dried slowly, his upper frame pliant and his lower frame less stiff and aching than he’d been earlier. He let himself be led over to the bed and guided down until his back pressed against the familiar bedclothes. He let his thighs be parted and sighed when phantom hands began massaging, warm and loving.

Emrys knew what he needed whenever he needed it most and he gave himself to that knowing force easily, gently, his trust a calm current connecting them both. Arthur relaxed deeper and deeper into the mattress beneath him as Emrys massaged the last of his aches away, thumbs and palms masterful against the softer skin of his thighs. He moaned his pleasure and contentment and then arched when a wet mouth sank down the length of his manhood without even the briefest warning. His head turned away, face pressing against the mattress as his fingers curled around the bedclothes.

He didn’t beg or plead.

He didn’t snap his hips up for more.

He let himself be pleasured however Emrys wished him to be. Skin warmed from the bath grew warmer, flushing, the heat spreading down from his face as that phantom mouth rose and fell upon him. Phantom cheeks hollowed around him. Phantom muscles flexed as his manhood was drawn deeper, drawn into what felt like a warm throat. Sweat broke out upon his quickening flesh as his pleasure mounted. His frame tensed for a long and exquisite moment as his manhood throbbed in ecstasy, his back arching even as one of those phantom hands ran over his abdomen and up to the base of his sternum in a possessive fashion. His climax didn’t crash through him. It was thick and heavy, and not unlike the sweetest honey, sliding through him in a slow and languid fashion that left him quivering.

Arthur responded to the tender kiss that Emrys bestowed upon him a minute or so later, trembling beneath the swirling miasma of magic that made him feel so cherished. It ached to kiss nothing when he wanted to kiss plush lips. It ached to feel a familiar name unspoken upon his tongue. A phantom hand cupped his cheek as he continued to sprawl loosely, his frame sated and pliant. Arthur managed to smile despite the ache inside his heart and beckoned his phantom lover closer, welcoming another kiss that remained tender even as it deepened. He leaned into the hands that cradled his face and moaned in encouragement as phantom hips settled between his thighs. He spread his thighs wider, the action automatic and welcoming, not knowing where it might lead as their private moment together continued.

Emrys made no move to rekindle his ecstasy, but continued to cradle him close and treasure him with such tenderness. The magic treasured him until his frame grew heavy, the weight of his travels and his duties catching up with him. Emrys eased him up and pulled the blankets free before covering him.

“Stay,” Arthur mumbled when the magic made to pull away, to disappear into the crystal resting against his sternum. He wanted to reach his arms out and wrap them around unavailable pale shoulders. He swallowed thickly, pushing down the surge of emotion that rose against his will and forced himself to murmur firmly, “Stay, and hold me until I fall asleep. Please.”

Emrys pressed a soft kiss against his forehead and ran a phantom hand over his hair before winding tighter around him. Magic continued to soothe him as Arthur grew heavier, relaxing against the bed slowly, his vision darkening further with each passing moment.

Arthur wasn’t sure when the darkness of his bedchamber became the darkness of sleep: all he knew was the lack of warmth around him when he woke the next morning, his frame still malleable and his expression sleepy, his mind less than half conscious of his actions as Arthur grumbled in mild complaint and reached for the man he loved without thinking. His heart clenched within his chest when he found the other side of the bed barren of warmth and welcoming skin. Realisation coming slowly, he crushed his face against the pillows beneath him and swallowed a noise of abject grief. He didn’t raise his head until he heard the sound of a quill scratching against parchment and his gaze slid over the improved script wearily, his mind still struggling to wake despite the grief welling in his chest.

_Arthur, you must remember that you’re never alone in this misery; we miss our mortal vessel as well. We are all connected to each other in the most profound way, the three of us. He will return to us in time. You must never give up on that knowledge. You must remember that such delicate situations take time to resolve: we can’t rush our reunion with him or we risk making matters so much worse for all involved._

“I know that. I’m not stupid.” Arthur turned over with some effort and stared up at the ceiling, his mouth a hard line and his brow furrowed in a scowl. A whole shaped like Merlin throbbed inside him. He ran a trembling hand over his sternum – as if doing so might make the ceaseless pain fade into the depths of his chest. “But I’m tired of waiting, tired of never knowing when he’ll be returned to me forevermore. I’m tired of fearing what might be happening to him while isolated in that prison. I’m tired of never knowing when Bayard will no longer be a threat to us and those aligned with us.”

_You’re making progress._

“It doesn’t feel like I’m making _enough_ progress.” Arthur swallowed thickly, glancing at the golden miasma of magic swirling so close to him. He could almost feel the thick waves of understanding and compassion emanating from the powerful force that was once connected with the man he loved. “I know I’ve come so far since the beginning, but I still have so much to accomplish before I can ever risk facing that callous bastard again. I dare not even contemplate failure and still this burden is heavy, _so_ heavy, bearing down upon me without end. Is this how it feels each time we face such an impossible challenge together? Is this how it feels each time we embrace fate and attempt to bring it to fruition?”

_Yes and no. Naturally, challenges seem so much harder to face when weariness settles within our bones. You’re allowed to be tired.  No one would ever claim otherwise. No one could channel such strength and determination without relent for all eternity; it is natural to feel this weariness and this loneliness growing inside. It would be strange to live without knowing such a feeling, Arthur, but it must never be allowed to triumph while breathing is still possible. It might seem an insurmountable task right now...but you must keep moving forward regardless. One man can accomplish the impossible as long as their faith remains strong. Trust in fate._

Arthur sighed heavily, knowing it was true. He forced himself out of bed despite the weariness clinging to him and scrubbed his face with his hands. He peered through his fingers and gave the mirror connecting him to Camelot a long stare as it reflected his own stare back at him without relent. He decided he’d check in with Sir Tor once he was dressed and ask for a progress report. He and Sir Tor had communicated infrequently, out of necessity, knowing it would take nothing more than someone with keen ears to bring their plans crashing down around them. It had been so hard to keep his distance when something could connect him to his dear friend and his true home so easily, but Arthur couldn’t risk someone growing suspicious of Sir Tor and discovering their plans to overthrow Bayard when the time was right.

Arthur dressed quickly, fetching a pair of his more comfortable trousers and one of his deep red tunics. Both were soft and welcome against his sensitive skin. He combed his hair and moved to stand in front of the mirror, reaching out to press his palm against the glass and murmuring the phrase Morgana had taught him. He watched the surface of the mirror ripple and bend until it no longer reflected his chambers back at him. Usually, he’d have to wait for Sir Tor to open the connection at the other end and Arthur was startled to find it wasn’t the case this time. Sir Tor must have tried to contact him previously, he realised at once. It took another few moments for the mirror to cease rippling. His heart leapt into his throat when he saw the sight waiting for him: Sir Tor was smiling, his hands gentle and working up a thick lather, and his willing victim sat docile beneath his touch.

“Cabal!”

“Arthur,” Sir Tor choked out with some indescribable emotion before gasping, the sopping wet and lathered hound toppling the bath in his excitement. Cabal barked uproariously, doing his best to topple the mirror as well even as a grin of lupine delight stretched over that familiar and foreign face. Warm breath condensed upon the glass. His heart pounding, Arthur dropped to his knees and struggled against the emotions coursing through him as he saw how much his pup had grown without him. “Be quiet!”

Cabal fell silent as soon Sir Tor bopped him on the nose with a stern hand and Arthur mourned the loss of his enthusiastic barking, though he knew it was for the best. He watched his hound continue to stare through the mirror at him and grin dopily, that familiar tongue lolling out in a show of happiness. Sir Tor ran a soothing hand over lathered fur and glanced at Arthur, who couldn’t stop staring, almost unwilling to believe that his pup was such a strong and powerful adult hound now. Just a faint hint of the gangliness he remembered remained. Arthur rubbed his face with a shaking hand and somehow tore his gaze away, which earned an immediate whine that threatened to break his heart and succeeded in blurring his vision. He blinked his vision clear after a moment. He wanted to crawl through the mirror and envelop his hound with his arms. He wanted to feel the heat of his fur beneath the lathered soap. He looked up at Sir Tor instead.

“You never told me about Cabal.”

“You never asked.”

“Learning about Merlin seemed more pressing at the time.”

“I remember how pressing it was.” Sir Tor directed a somewhat guarded smile at him and then glanced down at the spilled water, sighing, grumbling under his breath even as he patted Cabal on the head with a fond hand. He moved away, picked up a basin from atop a cupboard and returned quickly, pouring the water within over Cabal and letting it rinse the soap from wet fur. It all sopped down upon the stones beneath their feet. Sir Tor glanced at Arthur through the mirror as a delighted tail started thumping against the floor. “Cabal doesn’t live with me all the time. Father took him in after Merlin was confined to his chambers. Cabal needed looking after and we knew it’d be easier on him: we still smelled of Merlin at the time and it would be a small comfort until he grew accustomed to our continued presence in his life. You’ve been such a good boy,” announced Sir Tor, casting a proud gaze down at Cabal without hesitation. “Haven’t you?”

Cabal huffed in agreement.

Arthur grinned widely, wanting to throw his arms around his hound again. He wanted to feel the warm gusts of breath on his skin and feel the cold press of a wet nose snuffling against his face. He wanted to feel the warm lap of an enthusiastic tongue as Cabal showered him in love and friendship. His heart aching, Arthur watched Sir Tor fetch a towel and start fluffing him dry, listening to the rapid thump of his wagging tail. Cabal looked content and healthy, sitting almost relaxed as Sir Tor devoted his time to looking after him with blatant affection.

Arthur couldn’t squash the immediate burst of envy; he wanted to be the one looking after his hound. He whispered the name of his hound and Cabal looked at him immediately, that idiotic grin returning, and Arthur reached out to touch the mirror in front of him. His hound hastened forward at once and tried to snuffle at his palm. A low whine escaped Cabal even as his warm breath misted over the glass again.

“I’m so glad you’re being a good boy,” Arthur said quietly, and somewhat firmly, his mouth curling around a sad smile as his vision blurred again. Cabal whined again – louder this time and the image showing through the mirror rocked back and forth as Cabal pushed against the glass. Sir Tor reached out and steadied it immediately, watching their interaction with each other as a confusing mixture of emotions flickered across his scarred face. Arthur raised a quelling hand and offered a proud smile as his hound backed away, settling down as he’d commanded without uttering a single order. Cabal was the best hound he could ever ask for. “You’ll have to tell me all about it when I come home. I’m looking forward to hearing it.”

Sir Tor scratched Cabal between the ears and then urged him away, removing a rope knotted in several places from his pocket and handing it over, allowing the hound to be distracted for a while – somewhat distracted at least. Honestly, Cabal retreated less than four feet before settling down on the floor, giving them both long and watchful glances in between bursts of roughhousing with the knotted rope. It was almost as though he expected Arthur to disappear from existence the moment he stopped glancing, stopped checking that he remained within barking distance. Arthur couldn’t help smiling, his heart flooding with warmth at the thought.

“He has an awful habit of climbing into the bed while I’m sleeping,” Sir Tor mentioned almost idly, earning an embarrassed flush from Arthur, who ran an awkward hand over the back of his neck as he remembered sleeping with his precious pup curled up under his protective hand. Sir Tor offered him a somewhat strained smile. “You needn’t be embarrassed. Sometimes indulging a loved one can be a good thing, even if that loved one is a hound. Honestly, Cabal isn’t the worst thing to wake up beside in the morning, though he is rather hairier than I’d prefer.”

“Is that so?” Arthur looked away, the ache within him fading in favour of a warm smile as he remembered the few evenings he’d curled up beside his friend in bed. A moment passed before he looked at Sir Tor again and he noticed the guarded stare being directed at him. Concern flashed through him in an instant. “How are things over there?”

“Sticky,” Sir Tor answered quietly, his expression growing grave as the admission escaped him. He almost looked as haunted as he had when informing Arthur about the imprisonment during the tournament the previous summer. He seemed a different man to the one who’d taken such good care of Cabal a few minutes earlier. His smile had evaporated – along with the semblance of familiar calm that had emanated from him while looking after the hound. “I tried opening the connection several times before and never managed to find a good moment. You were never around.”

“I’m sorry; I was bringing another realm under our banner here. I’ve had a few ceremonies to oversee and countless laws to review since then as well. I’m still recovering from how exhausting it was. I should have left the mirror active and instructed someone to keep the communications going; that was a gross oversight. It won’t happen again.”

“I hope not. Arthur,” Sir Tor began quietly, staring now at Arthur, his gaze doing its best to veil the dozen or so emotions flickering through him. He hesitated for a moment and then continued speaking, tightening his jaw with increasing determination. His back straightening, Sir Tor stood even taller, ever the warrior in command of himself and those beneath him. “I’m afraid something has developed during these last two weeks. You must promise to remain calm before I continue.”

Arthur blinked as his heart began pounding, sudden fear wrapping itself around his spine and squeezing like a vice upon hearing those alarming phrases. He gave his word and nodded slowly, rising from where he’d dropped to his knees as he waited for whatever dreadful announcement hesitated upon that familiar tongue. He wrapped his arms around himself and gazed at Sir Tor, his fear deepening into something closer to terror, but unwilling to look elsewhere as his trusted friend went on to admit quietly, gently, almost reluctantly, “Merlin has been released from his imprisonment.”

“You’ve seen him?” Arthur almost staggered closer immediately, one hand darting out to clutch the frame of the mirror as his head started ringing. His chambers threatened to start spinning around him. His heart tried to punch a hole through his chest. His knees were on the verge of buckling under the weight of the words that stuttered out of him next. Cabal started whining as his distress mounted. “Is he alright?”

“You promised you’d remain calm.”

“Is he alright?!” Arthur almost choked on the question as he tried to keep his voice down despite the emotions crashing through him like a tidal wave. How could he ever remain calm after hearing such news? How could Sir Tor ever expect him to? Just knowing Merlin had been released threatened to undo him altogether. He could feel himself quaking apart at the seams even as magic wound around him suddenly, unwilling to release him despite his desperate struggles to almost crawl through the mirror to find the man he’d loved for so long. “Does he know about me? Does he know I’m coming back for him?!”

“Arthur,” Sir Tor interjected sharply, his voice hard and commanding, though it never rose loud enough to be heard outside the room. Just the use of that authoritative tone forced him to stop moving, to listen despite the blood pounding in his ears and the stone walls spinning around him in a sickening fashion. “You need to calm down.”

“I can’t –”

“You have to.” Sir Tor spoke firmly, stepping closer to the mirror, his expression depicting so much raw understanding as he clutched the frame of the mirror on his own side of the connection. Arthur realised he’d been struggling to breathe when he managed to draw in a stuttering breath as Emrys continued to embrace him. Phantom hands stroked over him as one breath stuttered in after another until it was almost seamless. Sir Tor continued speaking all the while. Cabal started settling, keeping a close watch upon the pair of them – the knotted rope had been cast aside and forgotten since the commotion began a few moments ago. “You need to start thinking clearly, no matter how hard it might be right now. _Our_ Merlin depends on us keeping a level head about this.”

“Is there something wrong with him?” Arthur was ashamed of how small his voice sounded even to his own ears. How hesitant and vulnerable it sounded. He swallowed one emotion down after another, pulling the torn scraps of himself back into some semblance of the man that now ruled over two nations. He straightened his back somehow and raised his chin despite the hollow ache within his chest. His tone hardened. “Tell me what you’ve discerned since his release.”

“Merlin isn’t the same man I knew before he went in.” Sir Tor turned and fetched a chair for himself before returning, settling down in front of the mirror as Arthur did the same on his own side of the connection. He and Arthur faced each other as equals. Sir Tor looked twice as grave as he had earlier; another vine of fear grew within Arthur, but he pushed it down with a forceful hand. He wouldn’t succumb to fear and fail Merlin when he was needed most. He refused to fail the man he loved again. “I expected some changes after his long imprisonment...but not these. He is harder, Arthur, and so much sharper than he used to be. He cuts through a crowd like a blade. He stands beside the King, as though nothing has changed in the least. I fear our Merlin faced more than isolation in those chambers.”

“It could be a deception –”

“No.” Sir Tor shook his head sharply, his skin paling behind his scars. “We both know that bastard wouldn’t release him unless he was certain Merlin wouldn’t turn against him again. I believe dark magic has been used against Merlin.”

“Then we must free him at once!”

“But we can’t.” Sir Tor gripped the arms of his chair, his knuckles turning white. He stared at Arthur, aggrieved and ashamed even as he continued to speak. “Whomever ensorcelled Merlin will know the moment their enchantment breaks and then Bayard will know. We can’t risk that happening while Merlin remains under the control of his uncle – it would result in his demise and the demise of all those who tried to help him. Arthur, we have no choice but to continue as we are until Merlin has a real chance to escape when he is freed from whatever enchantment rests upon him.”

“How can we sit back and do nothing,” Arthur demanded immediately, his voice breaking, rising from his chair with such force that it toppled behind him. His chest started heaving, his emotions coursing through him anew. He couldn’t believe this. He couldn’t believe his dear friend would advocate for doing nothing, not when Merlin was being twisted and warped with magic. He thought about Merewald and the trauma she’d suffered while under the control of his own malicious and conniving uncle. Bile rose in his throat at the thought of Merlin suffering the same cruel violation of his mind. Arthur wanted to barrel through the mirror and tackle Sir Tor to the stone floor, grapple with him until Sir Tor changed his stance on the matter. “You believe Merlin has no will of his own remaining, but that we should make no effort to free him? I can’t stomach the thought!”

“You think I want to leave him suffer?!” Sir Tor rose from his own chair, his expression torn between rage and anguish. He struggled to contain himself for a moment before snapping, “You can’t stomach the thought? I don’t have that luxury, Arthur; I have to make sure matters don’t get worse because dangerous steps were taken too fast and the plan crumbled beneath our feet! I have to live with making this choice and I will – because it means Merlin will have a chance to recover in the end. It means his allies won’t be too far away; the enchantment will be broken when the time is right and he can escape to the border, where he’ll have countless allies to prevent that bastard from chasing him down! I have to make hard decisions because Merlin needs them to be made. I’ve known that man since I was a small child and I know Merlin would make the hardest decisions to help me had I been in such danger. I will do no less for him. Are we going to work together on this or must we sever our ties now?”

Arthur turned away, his spine rigid enough to ache and his chest heaving, emotions waging war within him. His breathing sounded harsh through his clenched teeth even as a quill scratched against parchment. His heart tore down the middle when he read the script being held up in front of him:

_Sir Tor isn’t wrong about our mortal vessel. We have dwelled within our mortal vessel throughout countless lifetimes. We know him well. He would make whatever decisions were necessary, even when such decisions were abhorrent to him. Sometimes our paths are darker than we’d like and still we must face them. Support Sir Tor in this and our mortal vessel will have a greater chance at freedom: those who believe themselves victorious won’t suspect a revolt from within their own court. Bayard will let his guard fall in time and our moment to strike will come. Trust in fate and our mortal vessel will be freed before long._

Arthur turned to face the mirror, resolve hardening within him and sharpening like steel.


	64. Chapter Sixty-Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay; life has been a bit all over the place lately. 
> 
> Thank you all for your patience!
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think. I look forward to hearing it.

His chest heaving, Arthur crashed through a patch of moonlit forest and ran even faster when a lupine howl echoed through the darkness behind him. He could almost feel the hot and fetid breath on the back of his neck as the werewolf chased after him. He’d landed outside Orford a week earlier, eager to negotiate an alliance with Anglia before tackling the realm south of their border, but the chance to stop a ferocious beast on the night of the full moon had interrupted their negotiations. He’d learned the werewolf had plagued the town a month earlier, leaving three mutilated corpses to be discovered in the morning, and their chance to stop the werewolf had come at last. He hadn’t argued about the delay; he’d volunteered to help implement the plan instead.

Armed with a crossbow and countless bolts laced with a strong tranquiliser, the Queen of Anglia concealed herself in the trees ahead of him and waited patiently, waited for the werewolf to come within range as Arthur made bait of himself. He’d forgone his chainmail and armour, having headed out into the forest with nothing more than a silver coin in his hand – which he’d slammed into the nose of the werewolf as he’d been tackled to the ground earlier. His heart had tried to punch a hole through his chest as the werewolf had wrenched itself away, long snout sizzling and moonlike silver irises alive with agony, and a strained howl tearing out of its throat. His arms had burned as he’d scrambled to his feet and fled before the werewolf could overcome its agony, his adrenaline driving him forward despite the blood soaking through the torn sleeves of his tunic.

Arthur had memorised the spread of the forest when he’d studied the map as Queen Berenice had developed the strategy, her voice strong and confident as she’d taken his few suggestions into consideration while developing the plan. He’d memorised the area he’d volunteered to search and the various routes to the target zone that he might need when he baited the beast.

He’d memorised the location of the various traps.

Arthur pushed himself harder, his vision blurring as sweat rolled down over the ridges of his sockets. He was hot and trembling, his muscles burning, threatening to give up before he reached the finish line. Blood drenched his hands as adrenaline continued to pump through his veins. Leaves and fallen branches crunched and snapped beneath his thundering boots. He barrelled through bramble after bramble with an arm elevated to protect his face from the harsh thorns that tore at his skin. His spine vibrated with the triumphant howl that escaped the werewolf chasing him when he was two dozen feet from the target zone. Terror burned through him like the harshest winter frost when the first of several claws grazed between his shoulder blades. He wasn’t surprised when Emrys swelled around him immediately, fearfully, propelling him forward at a speed that threatened to rip his muscles. He almost flew across the forest floor, the wind biting at his skin and his heart in his mouth. He sailed over the first trap without releasing the trigger and toppled to the ground in agonised relief as the beast howled in fury, its weight triggering the trap and snaring the werewolf amid an almost violent explosion of leaves and moss and jagged branches.

His frame trembling, Arthur sprawled across the forest floor as Queen Berenice fired her crossbow ruthlessly, her tainted bolt driving into one of the immense shoulders that rippled with powerful muscle as the werewolf struggled to free itself from its confines. It howled all over again and struggled harder, but it wasn’t long until the beast went limp and docile. Silver eyes blinked heavily, something akin to resignation burning in their depths as Arthur struggled to his feet with the aid of his phantom lover, warm arms wrapping around him and keeping him upright as his strength threatened to give out again. He’d thrown almost all of his strength into that flight from the werewolf now expecting its demise.

Arthur and the werewolf stared at each other, the former ignoring the pain burning across his frame as he stumbled forward. He drew the collar from his pocket and stopped beside the beast. His heart broke as he gazed upon the creature holding the innocent person within captive.

“I know the beast is responsible for what happened.” Arthur spoke quietly, his expression soft with sorrow and understanding, remembering his dear friend and the curse inflicted upon her against her will. He allowed a wave of calm to wash over him as he reached out and ran a gentle hand over thick fur that tickled his palm. He stroked the werewolf carefully, maintaining that sense of calm as Queen Berenice drew a dagger with great care and started cutting through the ropes keeping the beast aloft. “I’ve read about this manner of beast and I know it takes over during the full moon. But we have something that can help. You’ll have to trust that I know what I’m doing.”

The werewolf blinked slowly, never looking elsewhere for even a moment. It watched him even as a warm burst of magic enveloped it and eased it back down to the forest floor, where Arthur lowered himself to his knees with a pained grimace as his overtaxed muscles protested. Swallowing thickly, Arthur opened the collar and leaned closer, pausing when the barest snarl bared a sharp set of dangerous teeth. He strengthened the wave of calm rippling through him and his tension fell away, which relaxed the sedated beast in turn as Arthur wrapped the collar around the powerful neck and felt the magic snap into place. Silver runes glowed with power immediately, shining through the gloom. His heart clenched as fur began receding, bones snapping and shortening and reshaping; it looked like an agonising process. A pained whine morphed into a low groan and Arthur was soon looking at a boy, who couldn’t have been older than sixteen.

He looked confused and disoriented as he stared up at Arthur, naked limbs akimbo and sweating, his chest heaving in the wake of his transformation. He seemed too exhausted to even attempt modesty, and Arthur was relieved when Queen Berenice removed her velvet coat after setting down her crossbow. She offered it to the boy, who rolled his attention in her direction and started stammering, some semblance of recognition burning through the sedative pumping through his veins. Queen Berenice directed a fathomless stare at Arthur and then turned to head away, motioning a number of her men closer and leaving him to help the unfortunate boy alone.

Arthur smiled warmly, leaning in to drape the coat over the poor boy, helping him to his feet with care. That was when the boy noticed the blood staining his fingers. A distressed noise escaped the boy, who tried to pull himself away, but Arthur tightened his arms around him despite the sharp pains running through his torn flesh. He refused to let him go – not while suffering so much distress. Arthur spoke calmly, soothingly, reassuring him that he wasn’t to blame for what happened. He wasn’t surprised when the boy started keening, loud and broken noises escaping him as he stared down at his own hands. He wasn’t surprised to feel him shaking, his legs threatening to buckle.

“You must never remove the collar when the moon starts waxing,” Arthur explained quietly, once he’d calmed him down somewhat. He kept a warm arm wrapped around him in support as he guided him over to one of the men waiting, burdened with bandages and poultices – to treat the wound in his shoulder that hadn’t healed. Normally, a werewolf would heal effortlessly, but the sedative had made the infernal magic sluggish. “It’ll keep these new urges under control until the moon wanes again. You won’t have to wear it the rest of time – just the night before and during the full moon. Your new urges will be strongest then. Is that understood?”

Another distressed noise escaped the boy, but he nodded all the same. He stumbled into the waiting arms of the Knight as Arthur released him gently, careful not to jostle the bolt sticking out of his shoulder. Forgetting the events the werewolf had created might be a mercy, as he’d learned during his studies when he’d still served his former master, but Arthur knew that boy would never forget what he’d learned about himself.

How dangerous he could be.

He’d never forget the blood staining his hands.

Arthur knew the feeling, even if he hadn’t lived through the same situation. But he could still see the blood staining his hands when he’d driven Carnwennan into the sorceress at times. He looked down at the blood staining his hands now and approached another Knight waiting, trusting the woman to care for his wounds with adequate skill. He focused his attention upon Her Majesty, the Queen of Anglia.

Queen Berenice was a capable woman or so she seemed to him. She was an older lady, both strong and stately, though her iron hair was shorter than most of the men in her ferocious court. It was shorter than his. He’d mistaken her for a man when he’d arrived in Orford a week earlier – the cut of her jaw looked twice as strong as his own and she carried herself like a man. Fortunately, she hadn’t been offended when he’d blurted the observation aloud. If anything, she’d been amused and quick to say, “Perhaps I am. You’ll never know for certain. But I prefer Her Majesty; it sounds more impressive.”

Arthur watched her, his gaze speculative as she interacted with her men. She was shorter than all of them. Honestly, it would be generous to think she might have been pushing five feet. He’d calculated her height already, his mind whirring, the numbers dancing through the space in his head. He’d calculated the span of her shoulders and the strength in her movements. He’d stumbled over other calculations as he’d watched her, his mind unable to find the figures missing, and he’d soon given up.

Such calculations weren’t his business.

Arthur shook his head clear, wincing when the bandages around one of his arms were pulled too tight for comfort. He made his discomfort known immediately, swallowing a relieved sigh when the bandages were loosened at once. He dismissed the Knight once the bandages were secure and he approached Queen Berenice. His limbs trembled with exhaustion after running through the forest so vigorously, so determinedly, heedless of the fear in his veins and the blood pumping down his arms. Honestly, Arthur was amazed he hadn’t collapsed in a heap already, but he supposed the faint trickle of adrenaline still winding through him might at least support him until he reached the castle.

A discreet tendril of magic slithered beneath his torn tunic. It slithered around until a phantom hand began forming, stroking between his shoulders soothingly, offering support and encouragement. He knew Emrys would act the moment his exhaustion started to overwhelm him.

“I suppose I owe a debt of gratitude.” Queen Berenice looked at him once she’d waved her men away, her stare deep and speculative. Her mouth twisted around a grimace of distaste. Her deepening wrinkles grew more pronounced. “I’d have killed that boy, if an alternative hadn’t been suggested. But I find it fascinating that a man that sparked such dark times could ever become an expert on magic.”

“I’m not an expert.” Arthur returned her stare easily, steeling himself against the hard edge in her voice. He took strength from the phantom hand stroking between his shoulder blades. “I’m connected to those that are. I might have sparked dark times in the past...but I have no intention of continuing them. I want peace. I’m sure most of us want the same for our peoples.”

Queen Berenice hummed contemplatively, her head tilting, her expression easing as their staring contest continued for several moments. Arthur could almost see her mind whirring, but then she turned away, her shoulders squaring as she snapped out commands that were followed at once.

Arthur and his counterpart were soon riding beside each other, the gait of their mounts gentle and easy, returning to the castle at a good pace – one that wouldn’t force his wounded arms to work too hard or disturb the boy, whose sedated head was being supported against the shoulder of a strong Knight. He found himself glancing at Queen Berenice irregularly, his own gaze thoughtful. He wondered whether an alliance would be reached before he tackled the King of Amata.

He hoped so.

His dreams of peace were growing more fervent with each night. He tossed and turned at times as he dreamed of uniting the realms beneath his banner, his skin growing damp with sweat as pale skin glowed in the sunshine and his breath catching as magic swirled within familiar gemstones. He often woke with a thundering heart as images of a man both foreign and familiar flickered across the surface of his mind before fading back into darkness and leaving him with a desperate ache in his chest.

Sometimes he dreamed of reaching for a blade he’d never seen before.

His dreams were strange now.

He’d become accustomed to dreams that grew salacious and dreams that morphed into nightmares. He’d become accustomed to painful ghosts of the past. His recent dreams were something different entirely, and he wasn’t certain he liked experiencing them. He wasn’t certain he liked the dark facial hair that decorated pale skin or the bitter note teasing the edge of a familiar voice. He wasn’t certain he liked the sharp figure that cut through the crowds like a blade or the simmering anger that darkened a familiar stare. He wasn’t certain he liked the rough touch that handled delicate matters. He could say, however, that the jaded man walking through his dreamscape still knew how to make him moan. How to make him quiver with desire. His dreams weren’t salacious now – Merlin accomplished these feats with a simple simmering glance across a crowded chamber or a graze against the right place with his fingertips. He accomplished them with the subtle murmur of a few words against the shell of his ear while Arthur addressed the townspeople from the balcony, his jaded lover a shadow at his back.

Arthur wondered what it would feel like to kiss a man with facial hair. He wondered how it would feel rasping against his own sensitive skin as Merlin trailed rough and possessive kisses along his neck and down over his collarbones. Heat pooled in his stomach at the thought. Perhaps he liked the idea more than he’d wanted to admit initially, but he still wasn’t sure he liked the jaded nature of the man walking through his dreams. He hoped it would fade alongside the enchantment that he’d free Merlin from one day, no matter what dangers he’d face in the attempt. If the jaded nature didn’t fade away, then Arthur would remain at his side regardless. He’d learn to welcome it as he’d learned to welcome all the peculiarities exhibited in the man he loved.

Honestly, Arthur could live with Merlin being jaded and bitter as long as the pair of them managed to reconcile their pasts and the future waiting for them. One day, Arthur would die in some fashion. He wasn’t afraid to think about that day, though he wasn’t eager for it to approach. He wasn’t ashamed to admit that he wanted to spend his last moments with his former master, his dearest friend and treasured lover – whenever those moments might be. Regardless of whether such moments occurred on the battlefield or in the silence of their bedchamber, Arthur wanted to die with those pale hands clutched in his. He wanted to die with his head tucked up under a familiar chin.

He wanted to die knowing he’d been forgiven.

Arthur had been forgiven for the events leading to those two precious nights he’d spent sleeping within the warm span of slender arms. He knew he’d been forgiven for that anguish. He hadn’t been forgiven for the rest – for the trauma of seeing his likeness disembodied and the subsequent imprisonment and enchantment now forcing Merlin to stand beside that cruel bastard ruling over Camelot and Mercia even as Arthur negotiated a path across the breadth of Albion. He hadn’t been forgiven for that and he wanted to be. He hoped Merlin could be forgiving, but Arthur wasn’t holding his breath in the least. He knew there was a limit to how much forgiveness a man could offer when it came to the traumas suffered in life.

Sometimes forgiveness couldn’t be offered at all and that was okay; Arthur would accept whatever Merlin could manage. He’d grow accustomed to whatever Merlin could manage as he’d grown accustomed to the almost constant ache within his chest – the absence of Merlin and the soul that answered his.

It was a connection he hadn’t known existed until the night Merlin made love to him for the first time in this new age fraught with anguish and longing. He’d experienced the echo of that exquisite connection when he managed to slip into the deepest part of himself through meditation – deeper than he’d managed in the past. It had happened not long after he’d learned about the release of Merlin from his imprisonment and the enslavement of his mind. It wasn’t something he managed to do often since then. He’d started spending an hour of each evening meditating, wanting to keep his veins void of rage and his mind clear of grief. He could still remember the first time he’d felt the echo of that connection the evening after he’d spoken to Sir Tor, having tried to keep himself distracted all day, but without much success.

Emrys had suggested meditation while Arthur was soaking, easing the pain and tension from his muscles after pitting himself against the most ferocious of his mages all afternoon. He’d been quick to obey, his head falling back against the cloth cushioning the rim as he’d focused on his breathing. His heartbeat had slowed. His thoughts had fallen away, his awareness of the world around him and within him spreading, gaining strength with each long exhale. He’d slipped deeper and deeper into that awareness and he’d stumbled upon the threads of that connection. He’d felt nothing but waves raging against him in a show of wild fury, though it had been a glimmer of the soul he’d felt as he’d given himself to Merlin on that fateful morning so long ago. He’d choked out a laugh even as a fusion of fear and remembered pleasure shot through him. The crashing waves had stopped without warning, the sudden absence jarring, not unlike a strong wind disappearing after buffeting a man and letting him stumble to regain his footing. He’d almost lost his concentration at the tentative lap of water that came a moment later, trickling over his shore and then receding quickly, fearful and uncertain.

It had come back in a warm rush.

The ghost of those rippling waves lapping at his soul and receding brought him the deepest sense of tranquillity, his longing reduced to something soft and sweet instead of the sharp ache he was accustomed to. His anguish had evaporated in an instant. His rage and grief had been quenched as those warm waves had washed over his shore with gentle abandon. He’d given himself to the sensation at once and he’d had to swallow tears when he’d emerged from his meditation sometime later, his frame trembling and his skin wrinkled from lingering in the bath too long. Emrys had helped him out of the water, holding him steady, and Arthur had released a strangled whisper.

“His soul recognised me!”

He’d staggered free of his phantom lover and he’d almost toppled over, his frame racked with shivers. His fingernails had shown blue when he’d caught his balance against a chair nearby, his reflexes slow and clumsy, his hand fumbling for purchase.

Merlin had recognised him. The deepest and truest part of the man he loved had recognised him – no matter how hard the enchantment tried to keep Merlin at bay, tried to keep him beaten down and under the strict control of his uncle. Arthur had stumbled over to his bed and crawled onto the mattress as he’d imagined finding that connection again and providing some peace even for a short while. But he hadn’t been able to replicate the connection immediately; he hadn’t managed until the night he’d landed in Tintagel Castle after an urgent summoning from his adoptive brother, who’d been almost shaking with nerves and excitement.

It had been strange to be back in Cornwall after so long away, but he’d been quick to forget the strangeness as he’d rushed through the corridors like a madman while his adoptive brother hastened after him. He’d found the others waiting in the corridor outside of the bedchamber, each one of them as breathless and eager as himself. He’d hauled Sir Lancelot into a tight embrace before clapping him on the shoulder, the pair of them grinning with delight and shared joy, knowing a new and precious member would soon be gifted to them. He’d greeted each of his loved ones in turn and saved the most crushing embrace for Her Majesty, his dear aunt.

Merewald had been pale and shaking, though she’d done her best to conceal that fact from the others around her. Arthur had given her an understanding smile and had remained close enough that she could grab his arm during the next strained scream of pain emanating from the other side of the door. He’d covered her hand with his and squeezed gently, doing his best to be warm and comforting, a pillar of strength at her side despite his own pounding heart and his own discomfort. He’d hated to hear his adoptive sister screaming, her pain loud and clear in spite of the thick stone and oak door keeping them all separated from Gwen.

He’d waited on tenterhooks and had beamed when a loud wail came through the door, the sound jarring, but music to his ears all the same. He’d darted over to Sir Lancelot – whose face had been slack with shock and the overwhelming realisation that he was far more than a simple husband now. He’d given the man a prompt shove and Sir Lancelot had stumbled forward immediately, reaching for the door even as one of the midwives shoved it open wide and announced the birth of a strong girl. Sir Lancelot had disappeared through the door so fast his shadow almost fell behind and Arthur had laughed boisterously, close on his heels. He’d burst through the door to see one of the local healers settling a small bundle wrapped in loose swaddling into tired arms as a mound of pillows supported his wonderful adoptive sister, his dearest Gwen.

Arthur had beamed at her, whispering her name even as Sir Lancelot fell upon them both in a show of joy, his lips fervent and his touch tender. He and the others had hastened closer, all of them eager, bursting with delight and soft wonder at the small face nestling close to Gwen. He hadn’t been able to believe how magical she’d looked – with her faint tufts of dark hair and burnished brown skin. Her facial features had been soft and squashed and a bit wrinkled in places. He’d wanted to take her in his arms and hold her forever, but he’d known that he couldn’t.

He’d come as close as he’d dared instead and cast a questioning glance at Gwen and Sir Lancelot – both of whom had stared down at their baby, tired and in love and in so much awe of the delicate thing now cradled between them. He’d tried to squash his delight down when the pair shared a glance before Gwen instructed him to sit on the bed and directed his arms until she was comfortable passing their daughter over. He’d nodded at once when Gwen had been quick to caution him upon seeing his hands trembling, his frame tight with eagerness. She’d waited until he’d relaxed before easing the small bundle into his embrace and he’d stared down at his niece immediately, his attention transfixed.

His niece had been so tiny, so delicate and perfect in his arms. He’d fallen in love in an instant as he’d cradled her soft head in the crook of his elbow. He hadn’t been able to stop himself from bowing his head over her, inhaling the warm scent of her skin. It had carried the barest hint of sweetness. It had been the most wonderful scent he’d ever encountered. He’d raised his head and stared down at her, watching her twitch and make the sweetest sounds in her miniscule throat. His heart had expanded with even more adoration and his own desire to have children had intensified immediately, the weight of his niece in his arms compounding the sharp ache of it.

_I want this so much_.

He’d almost spoken the words aloud as a tendril of magic had slithered beneath his tunic and coat to run a soothing hand between his shoulder blades. He’d swallowed them before a single sound could escape him. He’d pushed them down even as the ache inside him flared painfully, disturbing the peaceful delight that had been emanating from him and earning a distressed cry, whereupon he’d returned his niece to Gwen and Sir Lancelot. He’d congratulated them both before escaping, breathing hard as soon as the door had closed behind him. He’d located the nearest alcove and he’d slid down the length of stone until he was sitting on the floor, his head tipped back against the wall as his emotions flailed in wild directions before easing, leaving him tired after his trip and the added excitement of meeting a new and precious person.

Arthur had focused on his breathing, drawing in one deep breath after another, his mouth curling around a tired smile as phantom fingers brushed a lock of his hair back from his forehead. His eyes had drifted closed as Emrys pressed a warm and understanding kiss against his brow before descending lower, pressing another against the bridge of his nose and another against the tip. He hadn’t been surprised when the kiss against his mouth had arrived and he’d opened easily, sinking into warm familiarity, letting it soothe and comfort him even more. He’d felt a phantom hand press against his belly, and his own had fallen to cover it. He’d clutched at the space warmed with magic and he’d wished that he could feel warm skin instead of the familiar tingling, though even that had been a welcome comfort.

“One day,” Arthur had murmured immediately, invoking the familiar words he’d once shared with the man he loved. His phantom lover had lingered close against his lips as he’d spoken. He’d let himself drift into a broader sense of awareness as the promise that followed flooded through him. “One day, Merlin and I will have the chance to be parents again. We’ll rediscover what that was like together.”

He’d slipped deeper and deeper into tranquillity, and then he’d stumbled upon the connection suddenly, like a man taking his first breath after emerging from the depths of the sea. He’d carried the conviction of his promise with him and he’d basked in the echo connecting himself and Merlin despite the distance separating them. He’d lingered close to that connection for as long as possible before returning to his adoptive sister, eager to see them all once he’d calmed down enough to avoid distressing his niece.

Arthur shook his head clear, dislodging the memory, and focused upon the path ahead of him.


	65. Chapter Sixty-Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, folks.
> 
> Real life has been an asshole. First: I was preparing for an exam. Then: I was travelling. Then: I was sick while recovering from travelling. Most recent: I had to resign from a band I've been involved with since I was a child on moral grounds because of blatant racism. Currently, I'm waiting to speak with the committee in an attempt to bring in new policies to prevent situations like the one I witnessed from happening again. I'm terrified that change won't happen because it was "just a joke" and it "wasn't intended to be racist."
> 
> Honestly, I'm damned exhausted at this point.

“You need to tread carefully,” advised his newfound ally, her wrinkles deepening as she watched him don his armour with an air of confidence that didn’t reach the darkest depths of his chest. Magic pulsed beneath his familiar gambeson and soothed the nervous beat of his heart. His shoulders relaxed a fraction as his confidence funnelled a fraction deeper. He could do this. He could accomplish whatever he put his mind to and he’d do so now. Arthur glanced at Queen Berenice and then tore his gaze away, determined to continue with the plan he’d devised for dealing with King Sarrum. He could think of no other means of freeing the Amatian people without the situation dissolving into a large and devastating war; he’d have to challenge the man to a duel and emerge victorious. He’d have to prove himself capable of protecting the people in the arena. He had no other option. It was this or nothing, as he knew such a man would never relinquish their power voluntarily, not when it could grant them countless perceived privileges. A wave of anger washed over him at the thought even as he listened to Queen Berenice say, “King Sarrum is a snake in the grass.”

“You chose to be his ally,” Arthur pointed out evenly, opting not to glance at her. He slung his belt around his waist and secured the buckle with practiced ease. His fingertips brushed over the hilt of the familiar sword resting against one hip and the ancestral dagger resting against the other, knowing those two blades would be the difference between his premature death in the arena and victory, between freeing the Amatian people from the rule of a callous man and failing to unite the lands stretching across Albion. He reached for his shield and helmet. “I can’t even imagine why, if you don’t trust him even that much.”

“I made that choice out of necessity,” Queen Berenice replied tartly, “not desire. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. You need to be careful in that arena: his fangs drip venom at all times.”

“He isn’t an actual snake.”

“You’d be surprised.” Queen Berenice followed him out of the armoury, displeasure plain on her face as Arthur strode down the corridor. She followed him at once. Two of her strides matched one of his. It might have earned a burst of amusement under other circumstances – even as a newfound ally, Arthur wasn’t foolish enough to chuckle over how short her stride was. He valued his existence far too much to risk offending another monarch over something so trivial. Queen Berenice kept abreast with him easily, regardless of her short stature and short stride. She even managed to make her hastened pace seem dignified and stately, as though nothing were out of the ordinary, and that fact was so admirable that it eradicated the burst of humour within him. A small contingent of trusted mages that had accompanied Arthur from Wessex followed a few feet behind her, keeping a respectful distance from the nobility, who exchanged irritated glances at each other. Queen Berenice continued to speak in a commanding tone that would have made less experienced men drop to their knees in supplication. “You have a second waiting, I presume. In the event of foul play, you’ll need one capable of leading the people to war.”

“I don’t intend to let the situation get that far, but I’ve chosen a second to represent me all the same.” Arthur glanced over his shoulder, catching the focused stare of Viborg, who’d been the first to volunteer to travel across the breadth of the land with him. He suspected her wife had something to do with that. His mouth curled around a fond smile at the thought. Arthur looked away, another burst of confidence flooding through him. In the event of foul play, his people would be in good hands. Viborg would lead them to the best of her ability, and if necessary, would sacrifice her own existence to protect those depending on her. It was what the best of monarchs were made of. He’d witnessed that determined gleam more than once since he’d been crowned King, both during vigorous training sessions and against invaders that dared to land upon his shores. He’d witnessed the ferocious courage that drove her to plant herself between disarmed brethren and the Saxons daring to face her fury, her war hammer glinting in the sunlight and dripping liquid rubies. Arthur descended the stairs before him and found himself in the entrance hall. He turned to face Queen Berenice. “Rest assured that I’ve strategized as much as possible in preparation for this moment. Word of me and the steps I’ve taken can’t travel unhindered because of Bayard and his paranoid precautions. King Sarrum won’t be expecting me. He won’t have a trap waiting to be sprung and I’m more than capable of taking him in the arena.”

“You don’t even know whether he’ll accept the challenge himself.”

“He’ll accept.” His jaw clenched with determination. “I’ll give him no other option.”

Queen Berenice said nothing, but he could see the disapproval deepening her wrinkles and sharpening her stare. Arthur, however, knew it wouldn’t matter what she thought of his plan in the long run. It would be successful and he’d accomplish another step in the plan to free his lover, bringing himself another step closer to fulfilling his fate in the process. He locked thoughts of Merlin and their future together away, sealing them inside his heart and letting them warm his core. His hand tightened around the strap of his shield until his knuckles ached. He’d win in the arena. He’d win for Merlin. All the hardships that he’d faced from the beginning, from the moment the Crown Prince of Camelot and Mercia had spoken to him in that damned corridor, had been for the man behind the coronet.

It was all for Merlin.

“I’m ready,” Arthur announced quietly, squaring his shoulders and straightening his spine. He turned an expectant stare upon one of his mages and the woman darted outside to mount Hecate. It was all part of the plan. He wouldn’t be soaring across the sky; it would be better to maintain the element of surprise for as long as possible. His chosen mage would ride Hecate across the border while the others took turns to teleport the remaining group to Londinium – the Amatian capital and a testament to history, to the Roman settlement that once encroached upon their shores. King Sarrum and his abominable rule didn’t stem from a line as ancient as the Pendragon family; his grandfather had been an upstart that swooped in to claim the vestiges of an abandoned encampment. He’d been quick to place himself upon a pedestal and strike down all who dared to attempt to knock him off.

Arthur looked at Viborg and she nodded immediately, reaching for him. He braced himself as the other mages latched on to Viborg, whose gaze flooded with gold between one heartbeat and the next. Powerful winds buffeted him in an instant. It took less than a moment to transport the group from the entrance hall to some verdant clearing, his most trusted mage in current service to the crown stumbling before catching her balance and wrenching herself upright. Her brow glistened with sweat. Her chest heaved around each sharp breath she dragged in. Arthur clapped Viborg upon the shoulder, his touch warm and encouraging, and filled with endless gratitude as the mages gave her a few moments to recover. Viborg grunted and waved his gratitude away, drawing herself up to her full height as she latched on to the next mage preparing for immediate teleportation.

It took four bursts of controlled power to reach Londinium and the last burst carried him into the throne room directly, where Arthur wrapped his hand tight around the upper arm of his weakened mage as the others encircled them protectively, their magic flaring as one to keep the armed men from reaching Arthur. Gasps of shock rippled through the court as the emblem upon his shield glowed in the morning light streaming through the tall windows. His gaze whipped around the large chamber, his mind whirring, calculating all possible escape routes and determining even the slightest chance of finding allies among the Amatian people.

King Sarrum surged out of his throne furiously, drawing his attention at once. Arthur ran an appraising glance over him as shocked whispers rippled through the court and the petitioners scrambled back several feet to steer clear of both monarchs. His opponent was portly, but strong, and his bald head carried all the arrogance and hate of a man without even a scrap of honour. His stare was sunken and beady, underscored with the evidence of overindulgence. He looked detestable. Arthur glanced down at the man kneeling beside the throne and cowering away, the faint hint of a familiar tattoo almost hidden on his arm and a leather collar wrapped around his neck.

Runes for obeisance and torment glowed in the sunshine.

His jaw clenching, Arthur raised his head and stared at his enemy, his anger almost palpable. It threatened to override his common sense in a blinding surge. It took a moment to push it back down and he held his hand out expectantly, unsurprised when Viborg pressed the gauntlet against his waiting palm. His fingers tightened around the gauntlet at once and Viborg stepped away, her stare molten as she flicked her attention between the slave kneeling on the hard stone and King Sarrum. Her magic crackled around her murderously, but she managed to keep herself at bay, allowing Arthur to do as he must. He stepped forward as his phantom lover pulsed in warning, that ancient and powerful magic rippling through the throne room and earning ragged noises of anguish and relief from several people – all of whom were collared and enslaved. 

“As the rightful Once and Future King, and witnessed before this gathering,” Arthur announced loudly, his voice firm and full of authority, “I challenge Sarrum Atwood to combat in the ring, where the victor shall emerge King of Amata and all realms now held under the Pendragon banner.”

Arthur threw down the gauntlet and managed to refrain from flinching, the clash of steel against stone loud and jarring, echoing through the throne room as the whispers faded to silence. He raised his chin. His voice continued to ring out before the assembled court and the gathered peasants standing witness to his challenge.

“Selecting a champion as a representative in the arena shall be deemed an immediate forfeit of the crown.”

King Sarrum turned puce with rage as the whispering began anew. His sunken stare dropped to the gauntlet separating him from Arthur, who watched as a faint sheen of sweat made an appearance before his future opponent took one step forward and then followed it with another, crouching to retrieve the gauntlet on his own behalf. His court watched all the while – curious and expectant and perhaps a fraction hungry, their stares burning holes into the tableau stretched out before them. Arthur refrained from smirking over the small victory, aware that he’d backed the monarch into a corner, knowing this made King Sarrum twice as dangerous compared to the serpents Queen Berenice had likened him to. Nothing was more vicious and unpredictable than a man backed against the wall.

“I accept.” King Sarrum stared at him again. His hand tightened around the gauntlet in his grasp. His features twisted with loathing, though arrogance returned to underscore the expression. He raised his bald head and his voice hardened even as his mouth twisted in anger. “Be on the tournament grounds in an hour.”

King Sarrum stormed out the door, his slave trailing after him silently, casting a hopeful glance over their shoulder. The poor man almost fell when he jerked suddenly, the collar around his neck glowing harshly, as though it were channelling anger from the callous bastard walking ahead of him.

Viborg almost threw herself into motion at the sight. She quaked and quivered beside Arthur, breathing heavy, her mouth twisted with rage and her amber eyes turbulent with emotion. Arthur gripped her shoulder tightly, his own frame tense with so much understanding, but he couldn’t risk jeopardising the situation as it stood now. So much was resting in the balance that a single thoughtless action could send it all tumbling down around them. He watched her struggle to push down the overwhelming force of her memories until she could stand without shaking, without threatening to charge after King Sarrum amid an explosion of righteous fury, and then Arthur relinquished his grip. Viborg turned her gaze upon him and Arthur swallowed thickly, recognising the bleak chasm that stared out at him.

Arthur said nothing, but took her hand in his for a moment and squeezed before turning, issuing stern commands that had his faithful mages bustling. Viborg managed to climb out of the chasm long enough to obey, his commands rekindling the spark that had been obliterated when she’d seen the collared slave kneeling beside the throne. Arthur couldn’t blame her. He knew it was easy, so easy, to slip back into the dark spaces left in the wake of such suffering and he wasn’t going to rush her recovery, but he refused to let Viborg continue to slip into that darkness. She needed a purpose to keep her distracted and he’d provide whatever distractions were required until she could create her own.

His mages encircled him as Arthur vacated the vast chamber, their combined magic a protective wall around him. It almost seemed unnecessary, for the people of Amata were still gaping, rooted to the spot with shock. He knew it was better, however, to practice constant vigilance – even against such startled people. He couldn’t risk the chance that someone would attempt to earn the nebulous favour of King Sarrum through bringing an end to him before the fight for the realm and the vulnerable people within could even take place.

It was the longest hour of his existence.

His nerves wreaked havoc within him as he counted the moments trickling by, Arthur checking the buckles of his armour several times as he and his mages waited on the outskirts of the tournament grounds. He tested the weight of his blades one last time. He ignored the pointed glances of the mages circling the area. He was allowed to be nervous. It was normal. But he wasn’t going to allow his nerves to overwhelm him before the fight could begin. Arthur sheathed his blades and focused on his breathing, pacing back and forth slowly, allowing the confidence he’d experienced earlier to flood through his frame all over again.

Arthur was brimming with confidence and anticipation when Viborg released a low whistle. It was the signal he’d been waiting for. He raised his chin and squared his shoulders as he strode into the arena to wait for the King, who approached with a retinue of his armed men in tow. His court and a growing number of peasants followed at a safe distance – as though King Sarrum might turn on them between one moment and the next. It wouldn’t have surprised Arthur in the least. He watched King Sarrum carefully, gauging his movements and the rage still simmering, take note of various twitches and tells in the process.

King Sarrum stepped into the arena confidently, his shorter frame weighed down with armour that almost dripped with malice – as though hatred and cruel intentions had soaked into the steel during his reign. Just being near such a malevolent presence threatened to garner a shudder from Arthur despite his previous experience in dealing with malicious bastards like King Sarrum.

Arthur steeled himself against the urge to shudder and drew his blade in one fluid motion. His hand tightened around the hilt slowly, firmly, preparing to clash with the monarch now standing opposite him. His heart pounded within his breast. He took a step forward to say, “I hope the best man wins.”

“I intend to.”

King Sarrum drew his sword in one swift movement as the stands flooded with his people and directed an impatient stare at Arthur, who did his best not to appear as though he’d swallowed something bitter. Arthur supposed he should have expected such an arrogant and condescending response from the callous bastard. It would be too much to hope for even a modicum of etiquette from such a man.

Neither of them waited for an official beginning; neither of them bowed to their opponent.

Arthur suspected King Sarrum would be quick to take advantage of an opponent that dared to bare their neck in a show of political etiquette. His grip tightened another fraction as he and King Sarrum began circling each other, more than aware of the silent anticipation rippling through the crowd overlooking them. One moment trickled into the next as the pair took one circling step after another, watching and waiting, the call for blood rising as adrenaline pumped through their veins.

It was his opponent that made the first move in the end.

Steel sang through the arena as Arthur raised his shield quickly, the force of the blow reverberating through his arm and down his spine. King Sarrum was stronger than he’d anticipated. Arthur grunted and gathered his strength in order to shove the other monarch away, driving the bastard back several steps as determination tightened his jaw. He swung his own blade with careful precision and muted anger, his heart thundering to the sound of steel clashing and the crowd gasping. His first clash with King Sarrum ended after a few short moments and then the pair pulled away, renewing their circling and continuing their calculating, watching each other with the intense focus of birds of prey, searching for weaknesses in their defences.

Repeatedly, the two experienced noblemen clashed for a series of violent blows before dancing away, their chests heaving from exertion and sweat beading upon their brows. It was almost inspiring, how King Sarrum managed to keep pace with someone several decades his junior. It was unfortunate that the man was a complete bastard. It seemed a shame to ignore such strength and stamina.

Arthur gritted his teeth and threw himself into another volley, determined to emerge with victory, knowing King Sarrum was more than determined to do the same. He became a storm of violence and aggression as the battle between them raged onward – the crowd fuelling each burst of furious blows with ragged shouts and sharp gasps and roars of outrage whenever King Sarrum did something unsporting, which occurred more often than Arthur appreciated. Though it was unsporting, it wasn’t forbidden in the arena. He knew the pair of them were fighting for far more than honour and glory; the freedom of countless people and the betterment of the realm were at stake. He’d have to put up with this behaviour until he gained the upper hand in the match – at which point he’d wipe the floor with the callous and underhanded bastard.

King Sarrum swallowed a hoarse scream of pain as Arthur wrenched his damned shield away, the latter having executed an expert move that twisted his arm between one moment and the next.

The snap of bone was audible.

Snarling, Arthur tossed the shield over the low perimeter wall encircling the ring, and then dumped his own alongside the lost shield a moment later. He wasn’t going to descend to the same level of dishonour as the current King; he had a reputation as a fair monarch to uphold for the future. Breathing harshly, and grunting heavily, King Sarrum stumbled back several feet and drew his broken arm against his chest as Arthur twirled his blade with threatening determination and came after him without hesitation.

“You have the chance to concede defeat now,” Arthur informed him firmly, his frame burning beneath his chainmail and armour. He wouldn’t mind bringing the battle for the realm to a quick close. He doubted it would happen...but he wouldn’t mind doing so all the same. Arthur stared at his enemy, at the evidence of exertion on his overindulgent face. He knew the answer before King Sarrum even opened his mouth. “What a shame.”

Arthur lunged immediately, his blade blurring, but King Sarrum managed to stumble out of reach before the blow could find its destination. It sparked several more torrents of violent blows punctuated with agonised grunts and determined snarls as the crowd seemed to draw in a sharp breath of anticipation. Sweat burned as it drenched his face. His spine threatened to droop with exhaustion. His muscles longed for a hot bath and a sensuous massage from his phantom lover to ease the growing aches as the battle raged on and on with no end in sight. Arthur gritted his teeth as the pair of them darted back several feet to gain another reprieve. He was more than relieved that he’d spent countless exhaustive hours training, building his strength and stamina for moments like this. He was relieved that the most trusted mage in his current arsenal had driven him harder and harder, expecting him to be better, expecting him to gain control of the fight and emerge victorious over and over again.

It was almost impossible to emerge victorious when facing a powerful mage.

His current opponent was no mage.

He and King Sarrum clashed repeatedly; steel sang and leather groaned. Dust danced around their boots as the pair circled each other, twirled around each other, and slammed into each other like titans.

His muscles ached from the force of each blow.

Arthur knew he wouldn’t be able to leave the bed the next day, or at least not for long, and he was grateful that some of the more powerful mages in service to the crown had volunteered to escort him to Londinium and act as his personal line of defence. He knew he’d need protection once the adrenaline wore away, leaving an exhausted and almost defenceless heap of bruised bones and sinew. He’d need to give himself time to make a full recovery, and doing so would also give his most trusted mage a chance to send word to Cornwall on his behalf. He’d discussed the matter with Viborg not long before he’d started donning his armour in Orford in preparation for issuing the challenge in Londinium.

Arthur just hoped Leon would be quick to arrive once word reached him. He’d need someone he could trust to oversee the new realm in his absence and Leon would be an excellent choice.

As an experienced member of the nobility, Leon would be more than capable of navigating the new court on behalf of the Once and Future King, and his knowledge gained through decades of learning would make his mind an immediate asset. His skill with a sword was one of countless other reasons behind his choice to summon his friend from Tintagel Castle. Arthur had no doubt that Leon would be able to protect the realm on his behalf while he continued to bring himself closer to Merlin and the land closer to a united front.

Arthur, however, also knew that fortune favoured the prepared.

If Sir Gwaine and Sir Percival were willing, it was his hope the pair would escort the librarian and remain in Londinium indefinitely, providing companionship and personalised protection in the same sweep.

He’d compensate them both upon relocation.

It was the least he could do for asking them to make such a move.

Arthur also intended to send word to each of his current allies and request the presence of one of their finest mind healers. He understood too well the abuse of power that came with being under the legal control of someone as callous as the current King, and Arthur wanted the slaves he’d free to have the best chance at healing, no matter how long it might take them.

He wanted the best for them.

He wanted the best for all his people.

Snarling, Arthur sidestepped a dreadful thrust and slammed the pommel of his own blade down upon a wrist slow to retreat. It was more than obvious that King Sarrum was exhausted from the prolonged battle raging between them. His opponent choked back a pained grunt as Arthur made quick work of disarming him and casting the sword aside. It joined the shields abandoned outside the perimeter ring, and Arthur brought the tip of his own to a weakened chin before King Sarrum could wrench himself away. He drove the bastard back one step after another, growling, “I will offer another chance to concede defeat. I’d rather avoid bloodshed.”

“You don’t scare me.” King Sarrum drew in a heaving breath. His face was vibrant with colour after their exertion. Beads of condensation decorated the steel of his helmet as he stared at Arthur, his gaze still sharp and beady, an almost impressive feat when taking his obvious exhaustion into consideration. More impressively, King Sarrum put his broken arm to use and gritted his teeth against the pain as he reached for the glove of his dominant hand. He drew it away, letting it drop to the ground without ceremony, and then started on the buckles securing the vambrace in place. Suspicion flickered through Arthur. He couldn’t fathom the notion of removing armour in the middle of a battle for the realm surrounding them. “I was ruling this realm before that whore ever conceived for Uther Pendragon.”

Arthur almost rose to answer the goading, but managed to hold himself at bay, his jaw clenching hard against the urge to bite his face off in a fit of crazed aggression. His blade slipped a fraction and a single bead of blood swelled around the tip. His stare turned murderous. Leather groaned beneath the tightening grip of his hand. His stomach tightened with dark anticipation. Arthur swallowed thickly, and drew in a sharp breath as he did his utmost to calm down.

It wouldn’t do to throw his honour aside over someone so despicable.

“I shan’t make this offer again.” Arthur spoke quietly, dangerously, his stance a threat in the most primal fashion. He met the stare directed at him without flinching for even a moment. He dug the blade a fraction deeper and didn’t watch as more blood trickled past the gleaming steel. “I’d suggest conceding before I’m forced to do something I can’t take back.”

King Sarrum smirked as his vambrace toppled to the ground beneath their feet.

Arthur was given no chance to move or even speak another word before an unseen force wrapped around his middle and wrenched him away, throwing him to the ground at the other side of the arena and forcing the blade from his hand. It sailed out of the ring. He had a single moment to spot the slave from earlier rising to his feet in the crowd and barking out a command in the old tongue.

His own mages shouted in terrified outrage as King Sarrum wrenched up the sleeve of his gambeson and revealed an unexpected tattoo. It was _moving_ , Arthur realised as a tendril of fear wound around his spine and threatened to incapacitate him. His heart thundered in his chest as he stared at the black dragon. The dragon was undulating, black scales shimmering in the sunlight and crimson malice alive in its stare as it clawed free of its confinement. What began as a motionless masterpiece became a large beast that overshadowed the King, who laughed as Arthur scrambled to his feet and reached for the ancestral blade resting against his hip.

His phantom lover rebelled furiously, magic pulsing against his sternum.

Immense wings stretched outward to cast the arena in shadow as Arthur retreated quickly, his hand tightening around Carnwennan. He didn’t dare to look away, not for a moment. Not even when Viborg croaked his name from somewhere behind him. He thought he heard her moving, scrambling to join him in the ring, even though neither of them was capable of taking down a creature as powerful as a dragon alone – even one that wasn’t supposed to be real.

Arthur raised a hand to stop her; he couldn’t risk them both being wiped from existence in the arena. He barked an order for her to retreat and wasn’t surprised when he heard an immediate shout of distressed anger, but he was quick to remind Viborg of her sworn duties. He had to ensure someone remained to protect his people in the event of foul play, and that event seemed ever more likely, Arthur realised as he watched the powerful dragon watch him in return.

Something wasn’t right.

Something wasn’t right about the dragon towering over the arena. It was written in the murderous stare that watched him as he stared at the beast in equal measure. It was written in the tension tightening muscles that should have been smooth and relaxed with regal confidence – as though the dragon were in pain. It was written in the gouges marring the earth beneath its feet. It was written in the sharp twitches that sent the spiked tail whipping, lashing through the air and threatening to strike several members of the terrified crowd with each movement.

“You’re wasting time. Kill him!”

The dragon looked down at King Sarrum and then at Arthur standing on the other side of the ring, almost seeming to hesitate before drawing itself back fiercely, its powerful jaw extending as it drew in a sharp breath that signified something far more threatening.

Arthur knew he wouldn’t have a chance to throw himself out of the way, not when he could see molten flames rising rapidly, and so he did what all sensible men that had the protection of powerful magic would do.

He remained in place instead and raised a quelling hand less than a moment before the scorching flames engulfed him in a wave as powerful as a winter storm. A raging inferno threatened to sear him through the golden shield of magic that enveloped his frame between sharp breath and the next. He heard several hoarse screams of anguish and terror as he disappeared from view.

Determination tightened his frame.

Arthur gritted his teeth and shoved with the strength of his willpower, guiding the powerful force that volunteered to serve as his own personal protector. He watched as the golden shield of magic pulsed with renewed strength and exploded outwards before condensing, and inverting sharply, sending a wall of molten flame down upon King Sarrum before the conniving bastard could draw breath to scream.


	66. Chapter Sixty-Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, folks. A big burst of gratitude is owed to those still commenting, reading, and giving kudos. Not to mention those being so patient with me!
> 
> My second year of college started recently, and I'm working on a novel on the side as well. Updates might continue to be slow. 
> 
> As always, feel free to let me know what you think.

Arthur let his hand fall a few moments later and the dragon shuddered terribly, snapping its impressive mouth shut in an instant. The dragon shook its head from side to side as the crimson malice of its stare faded to a warm gold before the dragon raised its head and stared at Arthur, an almost heartbreaking expression of gratitude washing over its reptilian features. 

“Your Majesty,” the dragon croaked hoarsely, her voice weak enough to suggest she hadn’t spoken in countless decades. Her claws scraped against sand that had hardened into a pale gemstone of immense size under the heat and pressure of draconian fire confined to a small space as a result of magic. The dragon hastened forward as her golden stare grew wet with emotion. She almost prostrated herself upon the ground at his feet and Arthur took an immediate step away, his heart hammering even as it tore down the middle upon seeing a creature so majestic in such a servile position. What appeared to be enormous tears splashed down upon the gemstone at her feet and soaked his heated armour in a thick wave. Her hoarse voice grew pleading, almost desperate with emotion. “Your Majesty, I never intended to harm a single soul here. I was bound in service to that cesspit of hatred when I was a hatchling; a member of the Sidhe race bound me to him in return for aid given to her father. I beg forgiveness for the harm I’ve caused since then!”

“You have no reason to beg,” Arthur answered quietly, stepping forward at once to press a gentle hand against a heaving snout. He watched as the dragon flinched away, as though expecting a lashing, and Arthur almost lost his sense of calm in an instant. His throat convulsed around a sudden lump as he noticed the faint knotted scars marring shimmering scales in countless places. His hand curled into a fist and trembled for a moment before he forced his muscles to release their tension. Arthur began stroking, the run of his hand slow and easy, doing his best to soothe the creature before him as he continued to speak in a calming voice. “I knew something was wrong. That it wasn’t natural. You’re no more to blame than the slaves he imprisoned and controlled with those accursed collars. You must be eager to return home after all this time.”

“I don’t have a home.”

“You do now,” Arthur corrected gently, his gut wrenching, never wanting to see reptilian features fall like that again. He proceeded to murmur directions soft enough that no one else would hear him. It no longer mattered that the crowd had fallen silent in the stands surrounding the arena. It no longer mattered that nothing remained of the former King, but a horrendous stench and a burnt residue. All he cared about was making sure this tormented dragon found her kin and that she could begin healing, and perhaps meet her loving dragonlord one day, once Arthur helped him regain his magic. Arthur watched the dragon perk up slowly, his voice calming her, and his words providing something to focus on for the foreseeable future. “Kilgharrah and the others could use some new company, I’m sure. Inform him that I’m making progress. I’m assuming I don’t have to explain who I am.”

Arthur watched as the immense dragon shook her head immediately, her stare knowing and her powerful wings spreading. She was airborne a moment or so later. He watched her disappear without another word and then turned to see Viborg hurdling over the wall encircling the ring; Arthur was taken aback when she collided with him and threw her arms around his neck in an almost crushing embrace. He grunted with the effort to remain standing, his own arm wrapping around his friend automatically, though his face contorted with no small amount of alarmed confusion. Viborg had never embraced him. Not once in the time he’d come to know her. He was certain she’d never embraced a single person aside from her wife and son.

Viborg drew back a moment later and thumped his armoured shoulder hard enough to injure her own hand. She cursed loudly, shaking her hand before clutching it close to her heaving chest as she directed a murderous stare at him. Arthur released an immediate breath of immense relief. He thought he’d done something irrevocable for a moment and that he’d have to offer his sincerest condolences to Gelsey, who’d never forgive him for having broken her wife.

“Never do something like that again.” Viborg growled at him – not unlike a feral hound. However, there was a sudden softness to her murderous stare that made it seem far less threatening, which was a good thing, because Arthur was losing the will to remain standing at an alarming rate and he didn’t want an argument to ignite between himself and his trusted mage right now. She looked prepared to growl at him some more before she seemed to change her mind. Her frame tensed instead and she raised her chin before bellowing, “The King is dead! Long live the King!”

Arthur started to lose the tension in his body, his frame drooping, exhaustion pulling at the edge of his vision as the shout rippled around the stands with growing fervour. It wasn’t just the slaves and peasants bellowing their euphoria: the nobles and the armed warriors that had come to watch were doing so as well. It was blatant that Sarrum hadn’t been a cherished or trusted King, and the fact that he’d emerged victorious grew even sweeter upon learning that the Amatian people welcomed him. Arthur raised a hand in acknowledgement of his new citizens and started moving straight away, heading for the castle with stubborn determination. He needed some damned sleep and soon. His trusted mage sidled closer. Just in case his strength gave out before he reached the castle.

Arthur, however, was determined to reach the entrance hall at least before succumbing to complete exhaustion. He managed that much and more. He managed to follow an eager manservant to a fine chamber, though it was obvious that it wasn’t one meant for a King, but he didn’t care about that in the slightest. Truthfully, he just wanted to sleep. Some straw strewn on the stone floor would have been enough comfort for him at that point. His entire frame hurt. He felt like an enormous bruise and he couldn’t move much as Viborg volunteered to help him out of his armour, her hands gentle and her mood surly, which made him all the more fond of his newfound friend. He was still being unbuckled when several chambermaids came through the door in a flurry, armed with a large tub and countless buckets of steaming water.

He could have kissed the lot of them for their forethought.

Arthur knew he couldn’t fall into bed as soon as the women vacated the bedchamber; it would make the aches and pains a hundred times worse for him in the morning, and he wasn’t going to let that happen. Not when he could feel Emrys vibrating with the need to take care of him after his ordeal in the arena. Arthur mumbled his gratitude and waved the women away, suggesting that his mage prepare the missives he wanted to send for immediate dispatch. Viborg stared at him for a moment and nodded slowly, disappearing through the doorway, leaving him alone with his phantom lover at last.

His mouth opened around a tired groan as phantom hands carded through his hair gently, brushing a few damp locks back from his forehead. Emrys treated him with so much tenderness in moments like this. He surrendered to those tender ministrations without argument and moved with minimal prompting, allowing his phantom lover to undress him carefully, golden bands of magic supporting him and preventing him from toppling with exhaustion. Arthur soon started to ease himself into steaming water, but his knees buckled from a mixture of fatigue and a sharp surge of pleasure almost at once. His phantom lover helped him down gently, easing him down against the side of the tub and guiding his head to rest against the folded cloth waiting for him.

Arthur mumbled his gratitude all over again and earned a soft kiss from his phantom lover, whose mouth trailed affection kisses down along his nose and to his mouth. He managed to muster enough strength to return the tender kiss for a moment and then eased away, moaning, allowing his exhaustion to pull at him. He drifted into slumber long before the careful washing process began and failed to wake until the next morning, whereupon he woke to the sensation of being protected and adored as bands of warm magic rippled against his skin in time with his slow breathing, which earned a warm smile before Arthur turned his head to welcome another soft kiss. Arthur lingered in bed and luxuriated in a series of such kisses until human nature became a pressing need. He hauled himself out of bed and went stumbling, eager to find the chamber pot on the other side of the room.

His frame relaxed around a long sigh.

“That was exhausting,” Arthur mumbled a few moments later, teetering where he stood until phantom arms wound around him and supported his body, which was as stiff and sore and sluggish as he’d expected it would be. Emrys trailed adoring kisses along the nape of his neck and a phantom hand soothed over his sternum. Arthur hummed in encouragement and turned his head slowly, welcoming another lingering kiss that had his toes curling and his hand longing to find raven hair. He and his phantom lover remained like that for a long moment before a faint knock on the door interrupted them. He sighed heavily, stumbled over to the bed and wrapped a black sheet around his body, and then hastened to the door as fast as his aching frame allowed. He opened the door a fraction and met the amused stare of his trusted mage while doing his best not to start blushing, because Viborg would never leave the matter subside for as long as he lived. He forced himself to arch a supercilious brow despite his blatant exhaustion. “You needed something?”

“Your new household servants were going to deliver these. I interceded.”

“I assume the food and clothes passed muster,” Arthur answered quietly, retreating a step and widening the doorway, allowing his friend to step inside. She carried a stack of folded clothes and a platter laden with breakfast floated along behind her, the scent of which was far more than tantalising. His stomach growled with sudden fervour. Viborg set the platter down on the table and dumped the clothes on the nearest chair before turning to face Arthur, her expression as fierce as usual. His stomach still growling, Arthur remained near the door and answered her fierce stare with a tired one of his own. He frowned after a moment. “Is there a problem?”

“Your new court wanted to oversee the official coronation today, but I encouraged them to postpone until tomorrow morning. You’ll want to rest as much as possible between then and now. I know how draining those ceremonies can be.” Viborg dipped her head in mild deference to him and his unspoken wishes as Arthur beamed at her in blinding gratitude. She continued listing information without prompting, counting them off on her long fingers as she went. “Additionally, I’ve give measurements to the seamstresses in residence and appropriate clothing should be finished in time for the ceremony, though these clothes will suffice until the librarian arrives to oversee the ruling of the realm. Your missives have all been dispatched and we’re awaiting the responses. Your armour is being repaired and polished as we speak. Your blade has been oiled and sharpened. Your mount has arrived safely, and her arrival has prompted a burst of euphoria among a few of the...liberated slaves. Two of them were Cornish citizens.”

His expression hardened at the idea that some of their citizens had vanished without their disappearance sounding the alarm and alerting the Queen of Cornwall. It was possible that individuals from the local authorities had succumbed to bribery, and it would have to be investigated as soon as possible. He’d have to confer with Merewald on the matter.

“You needn’t worry,” Viborg hastened to say, her tone calm and even despite the flash of muted anger in her ferocious stare. Honestly, Arthur was amazed at the measure of calm she evinced in that moment when he knew how much she longed to crawl back in time and tear Sarrum to pieces with her bare hands. She might have fed him his own entrails in the process. “I contacted the Queen of Cornwall personally, and informed her over the course of the evening, and she plans to travel to Dorchester while Her Grace handles the matter. She’ll be waiting upon our return to the citadel.”

Arthur nodded in immediate understanding, though his mouth curled upon hearing the title bestowed upon his adoptive sister, who was proving to be a wonderful addition to the Cornish household. He’d received countless missives from Merewald since he’d been crowned King, and he read them with a profound sense of longing. She often wrote about the things he missed – including time to bond with the newest member of his family, who was growing like a weed in the few weeks since she’d been born or so Merewald claimed in her letters. Fortunately, she’d made sure to include a few charcoal sketches and Arthur often found himself staring down at them in quiet wonder. He’d run his fingers over the shape of her face and the soft curl of her hand as he wondered how long it would be until he could hold her again. Until he could press his face against hers and shower her with love.

“I’m glad.” Arthur crossed the room slowly, easing himself into a chair and pulling the platter closer with one hand while clutching the sheet closed with the other. He downed a few berries and hummed in appreciation. He looked up at his mage and beckoned for her to join him at the table. “I’ve been meaning to invite her, but haven’t had the chance. I suspect I’ll be delegating a few duties once we return. Not too many, of course. I don’t want the court thinking I’m slacking.”

“No one in Dorchester would ever believe something so ludicrous.” Viborg directed a hard stare his way, her mouth thinning, though there was a glimmer of concern written upon her features. She tapped the table in front of her with one smooth nail. “You never take a moment to rest. You’ve never stopped working for a moment since being crowned King, apart from when convalescing, and such diligence deserves a reward. Take as much time as possible. You know we’re willing to oversee the realm.”

“You know I can’t. That isn’t how this works.” Arthur shook his head and poured himself a goblet of cool water, remembering too well the times he’d longed to have more private moments with Merlin when he’d been working as a manservant in Camelot. How he’d longed to have the man he loved close enough to touch when surrounded with peasants and noblemen at all hours of the day, Merlin working tirelessly, serving a monarch that never deserved his service in the first place. Merlin had been a simple Crown Prince then and that position alone was exhausting, Arthur knew now from his own personal experience. He glanced at his friend and offered a tired smile. “Kings don’t get leave unless necessary, and I know most nobles would consider a visit from kin a needless luxury; I can’t afford to alienate a single member of the court on a fanciful whim. I haven’t ruled for long enough.”

“Most nobles would consider uniting the realms a fanciful whim.”

“Most nobles that don’t practice the old religion or sorcery, certainly, but I have the weight of fate beside me and the faith of the people behind me. I don’t think the court would be so amenable to these excursions otherwise. The court knows I need to unite the realms for the overall benefit of our people. I wouldn’t have the same ultimate goal when spending time with the Queen of Cornwall and that makes the difference.” Arthur reached for a steaming bread roll and tore it apart before slathering it in delicious honey, his expression tired and eager at the same time. He moaned around a warm mouthful. He was certain he’d never stop loving the combination of sweet and warmth on his tongue. He savoured the sensation for as long as possible before looking at his friend again. “But I appreciate the attempt to dissuade me from being so diligent for a while.”

Viborg huffed in rising irritation and looked away, her jaw clenching, knowing he’d made his decision and it wouldn’t be changing, no matter how she argued around the issue in the future. He could be as stubborn as a mule. He and Viborg both knew that. Arthur smiled fondly, knowing she’d grumble about his stubbornness for quite a while before conceding defeat at last. He wondered what he’d done to deserve friends like the fine woman in front of him and wondered whether the children he might have in the future would be so fortunate. He hoped so.

Arthur and Viborg continued to converse quietly, his friend managing to put aside her anger in favour of keeping him company, familiarising him with other occurrences in the castle and whatever concerns had been brought forward while he’d been convalescing in his chambers. He listened closely, wanting to do well for the people he’d liberated and to right whatever injustices still in place in the wake of his predecessor as well as he could. He knew he couldn’t fix all the problems himself and that it couldn’t be done overnight...but he’d do his best to mitigate the effects of such a cruel reign until Leon came to act in his stead. He’d dismantle whatever torture chambers existed in the realm himself.

Arthur wasn’t naive enough to think such chambers didn’t exist in a realm such as this. He imagined Sarrum whipped the inhabitants of Londinium for pleasure as often as punishment for misbehaviour. His jaw clenched at the thought. Anger surged through him in a familiar wave. Sarrum wasn’t that different from the King of Camelot and Mercia. Arthur remembered his own whipping with perfect clarity, the powerful crack of the whip and the fire that seared across his back as Merlin was forced to punish him for actions he’d taken himself. He remembered the veiled pleasure he’d seen behind the wall of rage whenever Bayard assaulted him. Just the thought of his defenceless people being forced to experience such torment made him want to incinerate his predecessor – that cruel bastard – all over again. Bowing his head silently, Arthur hoped he and Leon could help the people of Amata recover from such a cruel reign.

Viborg abandoned him to his own devices eventually, vacating the chambers once Arthur nodded his acceptance. She took the platter with her and passed it to a servant in the corridor.

Arthur remained seated for a moment before returning to the bed. Several warm bands of magic enveloped him at once. Humming appreciatively, Arthur answered the tender kiss that came and luxuriated in the chance to relax with his phantom lover. It wouldn’t be long until he had to don ceremonial clothes and survive another coronation before bringing important matters of the court to heel. He dozed on and off throughout the day, basking in the warmth and affection being showered upon him between rounds of semi-silent conversation and muffled bursts of laughter as Emrys teased him with phantom fingertips. He and Emrys made love in the late evening, Arthur tangled in the sheets and moaning, his thighs spread wide in welcome and the magic a warm presence against his back.

The coronation was as exhausting as expected in the morning, but Arthur survived it all the same. He made it through the vows of fealty, smiling warmly, welcoming the countless men vowing their services to the crown with renewed fervour. He was relieved when Leon and his knighted escorts arrived not long after the ceremony, blades strapped to their belts and clad in Cornish finery, and Arthur welcomed them robustly, embracing each of them before the court with great enthusiasm. In response to the summoning, Ansgar had come along to provide counselling services to the people most in need of healing, and Arthur was delighted to see her after so long.

Arthur insisted that the four of them would join him at the high table for the feast.

“You’re looking well.”

“I feel well.” Arthur smiled at Ansgar as he held out her seat politely, much to the shock of countless nobles and servants alike. His smile broadened when she settled down and he eased the chair closer to the table before reclaiming his seat. He leaned toward her as he continued speaking. “Or at least as well as I can be. I’ve not recovered completely, but I’m getting there and having a purpose has helped a great deal.”

“I can see that.”

“Someday, I believe I might be prepared to face the demons plaguing me still.” He spoke quietly, frowning, his words taking their time to form as he considered the matter at hand. “But I need to ensure Merlin is safe before I dare face the King, no matter how much the thought of that bastard fills me with anger. I’ll have to ensure Merlin is out of the line of fire before I challenge him.”

“That would be wise. Robbed of sorcery, there isn’t much that Merlin could do in the arena. Not after such a prolonged period of inactivity,” Ansgar mused aloud as she poured herself a goblet of water. She raised the goblet to her mouth and took a few sips before continuing. “I can’t imagine his uncle would allow him to train after such an open act of defiance. His muscles must be so weak now.”

“I fear as much.” Arthur made no mention of what he’d learned since he’d started working in tandem with Sir Tor. He couldn’t bear to mention it. It was terrible enough to contemplate the endless hours Merlin spent in isolation without remembering the foul enchantment corrupting his will. He reached out instead and went on to say, “Your presence here is appreciated. Your healing arts will do wonders for the people here.”

“I hope so...but that remains to be determined.” Wizened features deepened with sorrow as she gazed out across the banquet hall and saw nothing, nothing but the path she’d take in the months to come. “Not all victims of abuse are capable of making a recovery, Your Majesty, at least not as fast or as full as others might. I’ll do what I can and hope for the best for these people. I can’t do much more than that. No one practicing the healing arts can.”

“We’ll continue supporting them as needed then.” Arthur tipped his head in understanding before signalling for some wine. He swallowed a warm mouthful and then focused on his plate for a while. Eventually, he turned to the librarian beside him and said quietly, “How are things in Tintagel?”

“Mostly,” Leon replied immediately, though uneasily, “things are well. Her Grace is performing admirably, and Cornwall continues to prosper. The newest member of the household is stealing hearts already, as we knew she would.”

“You’re keeping something from me.” Arthur narrowed his gaze. “What is it?”

“I have speculations only; nothing concrete enough to pass on.” Leon avoided looking at him. He focused on his meal instead and continued speaking quietly, his words slow and reluctant as he forced them to the surface. Arthur stared at him hard. “I don’t want to spread rumours that might not be true. You know that wouldn’t be wise – not where the welfare of the realm is concerned.”

“I know this is about Her Majesty, Leon.” Arthur dropped his voice to almost nothing as he spoke to his reliable companion and hoped no one would overhear him. He laid a beseeching hand upon his forearm and stilled him. “Merewald is the last remaining member of the De Bois family; I have a right to know how long that remains true.”

“I’m not discussing the matter here.” Leon pulled his arm free and sighed heavily, a shadow falling across his face as he glanced at Arthur. His hand curled into a fist atop the table. “Come with me tonight and we’ll talk about it.”

“Okay,” Arthur agreed readily, relieved that Leon was willing to discuss the matter at all. He’d feared for the wellbeing of his ageing aunt since she’d started delegating her duties more frequently, taking time for herself that no monarch could afford even when going grey, but Merewald had dismissed his concerns several times in their correspondence. But his concern never abated. It lingered at the back of his mind at all times and waited to be drawn forward whenever possible. Now was one such moment. His stomach churned at the thought of his aunt being ill in some way, no matter how minor. Arthur knew illnesses grew more dangerous as patients grew older and their bodies grew weaker steadily, though he also knew Merewald had a better chance of keeping such weakness at bay, given her ongoing career as a warrior and the hours she spent training with the men and women serving beneath her. Swallowing thickly, Arthur tried to turn his mind to better things instead. “How do Ninianne and her kin fare?”

“Splendidly, Your Majesty, though she pesters her mother almost all the time. She wants to visit Dorchester again and sooner than her parents would like. I think she misses a certain someone.” Leon started laughing, a warm twinkle sparkling in his eyes. He sipped from his goblet of wine. “One would almost think she has a crush.”

“Don’t be absurd.” Arthur directed an unimpressed glance at the librarian and waved a dismissive hand. “I’m nothing more than a substandard brother to her. Anyway, Ninianne is a child still and grown men shouldn’t be speculating about where her heart lies. Let her grow up and decide for herself.”

“Substandard?”

“You know what I mean.” Arthur flushed and looked away, skewering some venison with venom. He started focusing on the cooling meal in front of him instead of the librarian beside him. “Having me around just isn’t the same as having her true brother around. Who could fault her for that?”

“Your Majesty,” Leon answered pointedly, “being different doesn’t make someone substandard. You and Merlin intend to get married one day, or at least that used to be the case. That almost makes Ninianne kin now.”

“Your agreement makes the previous comment twice as disturbing,” Arthur muttered over his goblet of wine. He cast a glance around the banquet hall before swallowing a mouthful. Leon muttered something about jesting, but Arthur spoke over him before he could finish. “And I don’t know whether Merlin and I will marry, though I hope we will. We have to reunite first and then we...we’ll need to get to know one another again. I’m different now and he’ll be different. He might not want what I want in the future.”

Leon snorted in amusement and said nothing in reply, the pair of them lapsing into silence as the feast continued around them. It wasn’t long until Leon suggested retiring, giving him a meaningful glance. Arthur nodded in understanding, rising from his chair and offering a few words to the people still celebrating, who cheered him from deep within their cups. He inclined his head in a show of gratitude for their approval and vacated the banquet hall quickly, his friends from Cornwall not far behind him.

The silence between his friends discomfited him.

Sir Percival had been sombre for the entire evening, and Sir Gwaine was almost a different person. The latter hadn’t even been drinking, Arthur had noticed over the course of the evening, which was as far from the man he’d known in Tintagel as it was possible to be. Usually, Sir Gwaine never declined the chance to have a goblet of wine or a tankard of ale. His declination didn’t bode well for the conversation in the least.

“What on earth is wrong with Her Majesty,” Arthur demanded as soon as he and his friends had locked themselves away, a thick door slamming shut and separating them from the world outside the chambers given to Leon for the time being. He cast a stern stare at Leon and then each of the Knights in turn before clenching his jaw in agitation. “Don’t even think of keeping a single scrap of information from me! I’m not in the mood for games tonight.”

“Your Majesty,” Sir Percival began quietly, earnestly, sharing a brief glance with Sir Gwaine before stepping forward in an imploring manner. He bowed his head in a show of respect when Arthur straightened immediately, bringing himself to his full height. “We’re not in the mood for games either. We know how serious this matter is and discussing it involves no small amount of difficulty, considering how much the Queen has come to mean to us all. But all we have is conjecture. We don’t have definitive proof that something is wrong; the Queen doesn’t share her health concerns with us and no healer worth their salt would share those concerns without her consent. I’m glad for that: the Queen needs people she can trust until the end. You know as well as we do that the slightest rumour could spell disaster for the realm.”

Arthur looked away, swallowing, the truth of that statement threatening to burn a hole through his chest. Weaknesses were the first thing that rival nations looked for. His aunt wouldn’t dare to reveal an illness to the court and most wouldn’t be stupid enough to discuss the possibility, not where walls could have ears. Concern gnawed at his stomach. He turned and sat down on the nearest chair before pinching the bridge of his nose. Arthur looked up at his friends a moment or so later and gestured for them to take a seat as the three of them continued to stand around like hounds waiting for a command.

“I suspected something wasn’t right before leaving Tintagel.” Arthur heaved a sigh and ran a tired hand over his face. Sir Percival gazed at him with no small amount of sympathy, Sir Gwaine solemn at his side. “Merewald was delegating, more than I’d ever seen her do previously, and spending an enormous amount of time alone. It concerned me at once. But the situation seems to have gotten worse since then. Is there something else amiss with her now? Have there been other signs of illness?”

Leon and the others shared a brief glance before looking at Arthur simultaneously, the three of them concerned and uncertain. The former answered the question asked of them eventually, admitting reluctantly, “Your aunt hasn’t been eating much. She manages a few scraps and pushes the plate away, claiming to be full.”

Arthur drained of colour upon hearing that remark. He could remember doing the same often when he was struggling, struggling with the sight of himself in the mirror and his appetite. He’d never expected his aunt to suffer from such a thing, not when Merewald seemed so wise and confident compared to him. She’d been his rock when he couldn’t keep swimming against the current. His hand trembled as Arthur reached for Leon and demanded sharply, “Is she like I was?”

“I don’t think so.” It was Sir Gwaine that spoke now and Arthur focused his attention upon him at once. “There are other things that concern us. This morning, she drew her sword and dropped it.”

“Dropping a sword means nothing; I’ve done that several times!”

“Your Majesty, she said it was heavy,” Sir Gwaine interjected calmly, his stare gentle as Arthur struggled against the emotions rising inside him. He reached out and laid a hand upon his shoulder without hesitating, and Arthur wanted to knock his hand aside and shove him away, to lunge to his feet and refute the claim of weakness in his dear aunt and beloved Queen. Somehow he managed to hold himself in check as Sir Gwaine continued speaking carefully, the words slow and measured. Sir Gwaine seldom took such care. It didn’t bode well in the slightest. “She couldn’t pick it up. She was...distressed and I don’t blame her. I can’t imagine it was easy, admitting that she couldn’t pick it up and that was just in front of me and Percival. The others hadn’t even arrived for training. Your aunt has been tiring quickly, Your Majesty, and I fear it might be a sign of something far more serious than simple fatigue.”

Sir Percival stepped in to continue and Arthur listened carefully, his heart in his throat all the while.


	67. Chapter Sixty-Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, folks! Sooner than I thought!
> 
> Please note: this chapter contains a health decline as a result of illness. Apologies to all who might find it upsetting, or difficult to read, for whatever reasons. 
> 
> As always, feel free to let me know what you think.

Several phantom serpents writhed within his stomach as Arthur descended from the clear blue sky, the wind pushing through his hair and his crimson cloak billowing, his anxieties a rising tide within him. Hecate trilled with euphoria beneath him. He’d sent his trusted mages on ahead of him to give himself time to prepare for his imminent encounter with Her Majesty, the Queen of Cornwall and his dear aunt. He still wasn’t sure he was ready, but he had no choice in the matter. He’d been absent from his foremost stronghold for long enough: he’d spent several long mornings discussing important matters with Leon after officialising his position as regent of Amata and the pair had devised a plan to deal with the local nobles together. He was more than aware that Leon could handle such matters without his input...but he had to be involved in some way; the people now under his reign had to know he had their best interests at heart even when intending to leave. He’d then made arrangements to return to Dorchester and to the woman waiting for him there. It was time to take a small rest from the quest for a united Albion and face his cherished aunt.

Arthur blinked his blurring vision clear and gripped the reins tightly, bracing himself for the imminent landing, which came a few moments later. Hecate slowed and pranced in place for a moment before settling finally, her powerful frame heaving, her large wings folding and tucking themselves close to her sides. She released a trill of pride and triumph at having landed safely, as usual.

Arthur dismounted immediately, a pool of dread swelling within his chest and winding through his entire frame. He pressed a distracted kiss against a warm beak before passing Hecate on to the grooms waiting, knowing it would be better to meet with his aunt at once. He’d spent enough time prolonging the anxieties that had plagued him since speaking with Leon and the others that night in Londinium. He straightened his spine and squared his shoulders as though preparing for battle and made his way, greeting Viborg outside the main doors and nodding, listening with one ear as she informed him that Merewald was waiting in his chambers. He clapped her on the shoulder in gratitude. His heart thundering, Arthur strode through the castle he’d come to somewhat care about since his coronation and spared a few greetings along the way, plastering a smile upon his face and inclining his head to acknowledge the bows and murmured words of deference from his people. He burst into his chambers before he could talk himself out of it and froze when Merewald rose from her chair to greet him.

Arthur had expected his aunt to look ill in some way, but it was an overwhelming shock to see her so changed from the last time he’d seen her. It was a subtle difference and glaring simultaneously, remarkable after his months of absence from Tintagel Castle. The shadows smudged beneath her stare seemed stark against the faint unnatural pallor her skin had developed since he’d last seen her. She’d lost several pounds and it showed in the loose drape of her clothes. Her hair lacked lustre as it hung freely, a few more streaks of iron having taken hold where strong black once reigned.  

“Your Majesty,” Arthur choked out once he’d managed to gather his wits. He bowed immediately, respect and admiration apparent in each fluid movement even as grief tore a hole through his heart. He straightened after a moment and reached for her without hesitating, and though his hands trembled faintly, it seemed inconsequential compared to the tired and loving smile bestowed upon him. Merewald was warm and solid as she allowed him to embrace her tightly, crushing her face against his shoulder. Her hands clawed at his charcoal doublet beneath the fall of his cloak. Arthur pressed a kiss against her forehead when she withdrew enough to look at him. “You’re not looking well. Is there something I can do?”

“Let me sit down.”

Merewald continued to smile at him tiredly, though the expression wavered infinitesimally, reaching for the chair she’d vacated with one hand and clutching his arm with the other. Arthur remained close all the while and dreaded the future. He knew without a doubt now that it wasn’t idle speculation that concerned Leon and the others serving under Her Majesty, nor unwarranted fear that had plagued him since the previous winter. Merewald was ill and there was no point in refuting the likelihood that her illness might be reaching the point of no return. He brought her hand to his mouth as soon as she settled in her chair and pressed a warm kiss against her familiar signet ring; it was the official seal of her noble family, and it would come to him upon her passing, but he could imagine nothing he wanted less than that likelihood.

Arthur wanted to see Merewald reign for decades more.

“How was the flight?”

“Exhausting,” Merewald admitted reluctantly, her mouth twisting around a grimace of resignation as she watched him remove his cloak and toss it aside without a care. She beckoned for him to join her. Arthur sat close to her immediately, close enough to take her hands in his. He gazed at her with no small amount of love as she squeezed his hands. “But I had to come.”

“You had to? Why?”

“Please don’t take me for a fool.” Merewald tipped her head to the side and smiled faintly, the expression underscored with sorrow and regret. “You know I’m unwell. I know Sir Percival and the others shared their concerns about me in Londinium.”

“You’re not wrong,” Arthur answered carefully, “but I suspected long before that.”

“I remember.” It was her turn to bring his hand to her mouth and press a kiss against the back of his hand. Tears welled and threatened to spill as Merewald inhaled sharply, her chest heaving, and then she was pressing her free hand beneath her breast. Her face tightened with immense pain before she released another breath and relaxed slowly, her pained expression fading, leaving her pale and shaken where she sat. Several moments passed before Merewald managed to speak again and Arthur never looked away, not for a single moment as his aunt gathered her strength and determination to continue. She blinked her tears away, swallowing thickly, and admitted gently, “I’ve known for some time that this moment was coming.”

“How long?”

“I’ve known since last autumn.” Merewald watched him draw in a tremulous breath and rise from his chair to approach the vacant fireplace. Arthur braced his hands against the mantelpiece and hung his head as he focused on calming his breathing, remembering all the lectures he’d received from his aunt since he’d accepted the role of Crown Prince of Cornwall. Lectures intended to teach and encourage him in the same sweep. Lectures intended to help prepare him for his inevitable coronation. His throat constricted around the sharp noise of grief that rose in his throat as Merewald continued speaking. “Marian informed me that I’d developed a lump.”

Arthur raised his head and turned his face to gaze at his aunt with no small amount of horror. He’d heard the most horrendous tales of such an affliction during his time as both a manservant and monarch. His face drained of colour at the thought of his dear aunt suffering, roaring with incoherent agony, until her last breath.  

“Lumps aren’t uncommon among members of our family; several others have died of this same accursed disease long before I was born. I’d hoped to be one of those fortunate enough to escape it. Unfortunately, that wasn’t to be and I forbade Marian from discussing it with others: I couldn’t afford to have word spread to neighbouring realms and risk a war breaking out. Our people don’t deserve to face further hardship just because of me!”

“I can’t believe this!” Arthur straightened and started pacing, his heart attempting to punch a hole through his chest and his blood roaring, a deafening beat in his ears. His soul ached within his core. A burst of magic exploded from the crystal resting against his sternum in response to his emotions and a fine figurine of a falcon in the midst of flight – a handsome and modest gift from his faithful regent in Tír-Mór – shattered into pieces and scattered in all directions. An abrupt wave of his hand mended the figurine a short moment later. But it didn’t lesson the strength of his emotions in the least. “You knew about the lump and never thought to stop me from leaving Cornwall last winter?! You could have taken a bad turn and I’d have been off scheming and questing, too far from the citadel to receive word in time! We might never have seen each other again!”

“I’m sorry, _so_ sorry,” Merewald answered resolutely, but sincerely, her tired gaze glimmering with unshed tears faintly, “but it had to be done. I had to do what was best for the realm in the long run! You didn’t have as long to train for ascending the throne as I’d have wished: I would never have taken such drastic measures had the arrangement I once made with Ygraine come to fruition as it should have. Fate placed me in a delicate position when condemning me to suffer this accursed disease and I had to make a hard choice in the end. Obviously, I regret that it was necessary, but I’m not ashamed to have made that decision. You had to be prepared to continue without me acting as a guide and that wouldn’t be possible as long as we remained close to each other. You depended upon me heavily, and doubted almost constantly, and I knew that sense of doubt had to be challenged before it was too late for the realm. No one should have to face that challenge while grieving: it is hard enough to come to terms with ruling a nation without adding the weight of loss to our shoulders.”

“I’m still going to bear that weight!” Arthur turned to face his beloved aunt and stormed across his chambers immediately, falling upon her instantly, crushing her close all over again and pressing his face against her loose hair. “I’m still going to grieve!”

“I know that.” Merewald wound her arms around his shoulders and embraced him for a long moment before withdrawing, her hand coming to cradle his cheek as she cast an adoring stare upon him. “But the thought of ruling in the wake of that loss won’t seem so insurmountable now. You’ll grieve for me and then continue on regardless. Ruling is rather like muscle memory; practicing manoeuvres has them coming easier in the future. It starts to become instinctive.”

“How much time do we have remaining?”

“Hours? Weeks? Months? I don’t know how much.”

“Your Majesty, _please_ be honest with me. Please!” His hand came to cover hers in an instant and he tangled their fingers together. “I couldn’t bear to have more secrets between us now!”

“I _am_ being honest. Predicting the death of oneself isn’t an exact science. Instincts are all we can depend on and sometimes those instincts can’t be trusted at all. You know that.” Merewald tilted her head as Arthur brushed his free hand over her dark hair. She smiled tiredly, urging him to return to his seat before continuing, his hand once again clutched in hers. “Truthfully, Marian never expected me to last so long, but I suppose being stubborn has its merits sometimes.”

Arthur and Merewald continued to converse until she started dozing, her head tipping against the back of the chair she occupied. He debated waking her and escorting her back to her chambers before deciding against it and retrieving a soft blanket. He draped the blanket over her carefully, his vision blurring briefly, and pressed a gentle kiss against her hair before seating himself at his writing desk and locating his most recent journal. He purged his thoughts and feelings well into the evening, but stopped as soon as his aunt began stirring in her chair. His heart clenched upon hearing a low moan of pain. Rising quickly, Arthur closed the distance between them and sought to ensure she was alright.

“I’m fine.” Merewald knocked his hand away, grunting, forcing herself to sit up despite the immediate burst of resultant agony, her jaw clenching and further colour draining from her face. She gripped the arms of the chair and breathed harshly, her chest expanding and contracting rapidly, punctuating the effort it took to push herself up from where she’d rested against the back of the chair. “I’m used to it.”

“Used to it?!”

“I’m no stranger to pain.” Merewald gave him a sharp look once her breathing eased. Her hands settled on her lap and her fingers worried at a lose thread. “I learned to put on a brave face before the court a long time ago. Women that intend to be Queen have no choice but to be better actors than our male counterparts. We have to appear stronger than steel: our enemies would sooner attempt to ruin a woman for daring to rule in the first place than perceive a weakness in a man. I’ve been concealing this pain for almost as long as I’ve been aware of the lump.”

“You don’t hide from me.” Frowning deeply, Arthur couldn’t help asking, “Why?”

“You’re not the court.”

“What does that matter? I’m still another human being...”

“I don’t need to hide here: I can let the walls I’ve erected down for a while and know I won’t be judged for letting the pain show.” Her sharp stare eased into something far softer and twice as loving, the sunken depths twinkling despite her continued exhaustion and pain and weakening existence. She reached out and captured his hand carefully, her thumb stroking across the back of it. “You’re a member of the family, and that matters far more to me than a gang of nobles seeking favour from the crown. You’re the reason I made this journey, though I knew I wouldn’t have the strength to make another journey, not for a while at least. I’ll need some time to recuperate before travelling again. Lately, just getting out of bed in the morning is exhausting. But I wanted to be here.”

“Your Majesty, I’m so –”

“Please stop calling me that.” Merewald grimaced as she interrupted him and her grip around his hand tightened. “I have a name and I intend to use it while I’m here. I want to abandon formal titles for as long as I can: I’m more than the crown I wear and the last thing I want is to be deferred to when I just want to spend some precious time with close family, Arthur.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur answered quietly, squeezing her hand in return. He raised it to his mouth and pressed another kiss as he had earlier in the day, choosing to kiss the back of her hand instead of her signet ring this time. “I wasn’t thinking, but I’m so grateful for the chance granted to me now. I’m sure it wasn’t easy, travelling here.”

“You were worth the effort.” Another wave of pain came over Merewald and she fell silent immediately, her breath quickening, and a muscle in her jaw straining as she braced against the pain lancing through her. Standing witness to her suffering, Arthur wasn’t certain what he could do or how he could help. A moment passed before the pain seemed to ebb and Merewald admitted reluctantly, “I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.”

“Is there nothing we can do?”

“I can do nothing,” Merewald answered quietly, regretfully, “but take sedatives for the pain. Marian prescribed a powerful dose some time before leaving, but I don’t like taking them: I feel intoxicated when I take those tonics and all it does is remind me of what I’d rather forget. I stopped taking them a long while ago.”

“I can’t imagine Marian approved of that decision.”

“Marian doesn’t know.” Frowning, Merewald looked away, her stare thoughtful as she gazed into the distance. “Or at least I don’t think she does. I never told her that I’d stopped taking them before she left.”

“That doesn’t mean a thing: the Fae are far more astute than mere mortals and govern the otherworld for that reason.” Arthur shook his head as thoughts whirred through his head at a rapid pace. “Marian must have known all along, but her honour is made of iron. She wouldn’t have forced the issue. Your wishes must be respected until the end and she knows that well enough.”

Merewald hummed contemplatively, but said nothing, her stare almost vacant as her thoughts focused themselves elsewhere. The pair of them allowed the tide of conversation to slip away, but Arthur remained close and stroked a thumb over the back of her hand all the while. He had no intentions of leaving her for the rest of the evening, not unless there was an emergency, but he trusted his underlings to take care of all other matters as he remained with his cherished guest. He wasn’t going to waste a single moment that could be spent at her side. Merewald remained in his rooms throughout the long evening, and it wasn’t long until she started dozing, mumbling that she was too tired to return to the rooms she’d been given for her visit. His heart aching, Arthur roused her from slumber and helped her rise from the chair before heaving his aunt into his arms and striding across his chambers to set her down upon his own bed.

It was a relief when he set her down: Merewald was still heavy, and his muscles were burning from the strain of bearing her weight for even that short space of time. Losing a few pounds didn’t detract much from the broad build she carried naturally, nor the muscles she’d fought to cultivate despite the longstanding traditions and laws preventing her from being a warrior like her brothers when she was a girl.

Honestly, it broke his heart to know she no longer had the strength to train with the men serving beneath her in Cornwall. Arthur knew how much his aunt loved training, how much she loved the fire of adrenaline scorching her veins as she tested and improved her skills each morning, driving herself and others to new heights. He knew how much she cherished the chance to protect her people with those same skills. Brushing a hand over her hair gently, Arthur gazed down at his dozing aunt and wanted to weep for the parts of herself she’d lost because of this accursed disease. Stepping back briefly, he unlaced her leather boots and tossed them aside before doing the same to his own and crawling in beside her. Merewald shuffled closer automatically, slipping an arm across his middle and tucking her head beneath his chin. He wrapped his own arm around her at once and it remained so even as his vision darkened gradually, sleep looming, pulling him down despite his desire to remain awake and tend to her needs should his aunt wake during the night.

Arthur spent as much time with Merewald as possible as one week stretched into another and delegated frequently, though he handled whatever matters could be dealt with from his writing desk himself. Not a single member of his council or even in the broader court of the realm protested his decision to devote so much of his attention to his ailing aunt: it was no less than expected. Nor did Merewald mind that he spent a large portion of their time together working, but he supposed Merewald was used to keeping that delicate balance herself. She’d often worked while spending time with him in Cornwall. A monarch never stopped working – that was something he’d learned from personal experience since the morning of his first coronation the previous winter.

Two whole months had passed before it became clear to Arthur and his council that the Queen of Cornwall wasn’t recuperating, but declining rapidly, the release of the guards she’d erected lending strength to the accursed disease now sapping the breath from her lungs.

Merewald could no longer rise from the bed without aid and the lump beneath her breast plagued her with agony, waking her at all hours. Frequently, Arthur watched her bite back a hoarse scream and couldn’t help pleading, begging her to relent and take the sedatives Marian had once prescribed to her and could be sourced even in Dorchester. But Merewald was adamant in her anguish: she wouldn’t take them. Arthur and several of his advisors signed and sealed an urgent letter to be delivered to Tintagel Castle immediately, and Viborg volunteered to transport the letter personally, her mouth set in a grim line and her frame tense with purpose. Sending the letter had to be done: Gwen – their steward presiding over matters in Cornwall – had to be informed at once and arrangements had to be made for her passing, from flower arrangements to the tomb in which his aunt would soon lie in repose.

“Take me home.” Merewald spoke the words quietly, her voice almost slurring as she rested with her head on his lap during one of her few painless moments. His fingers stilled and Arthur set down the large tome he’d been reading, looking down at her with no small amount of grief. Two weeks had passed since the letter had been delivered in Cornwall. Merewald blinked up at him and seemed to struggle to focus for a moment before smiling sadly, tears welling and shimmering, murmuring the term of endearment she’d taken to using recently, “Sweetling, take me home.”

Arthur nodded quickly, easing out from beneath his aunt before fetching a warm cloak for her to wear during the flight to Tintagel Castle. He helped her rise from the bed and hauled her into his arms far too easily, her weight having dropped even further since her arrival in Dorchester. He buried his face against her lifeless hair for a moment before vacating his chambers.

His heart thumping, Arthur carried her through the castle and acknowledged none of the people passing by, but for commanding a passing guard to run ahead to the stables and have the grooms prepare Nemesis for flight at once. His aunt deserved to do something she loved before King Oberon came at last to lead her away, no matter how inconsequential it might seem to others in the scheme of things. Nemesis reared in distress upon their arrival in the stables and released a sharp cry, wings fighting to extend despite the confined space and piercing stare locked upon the weakened form of the Queen of Cornwall. It was clear that the winged beast knew Merewald wasn’t healthy, and that she might not live much longer. She might last a few short hours perhaps – long enough for Arthur to take his cherished aunt home to Cornwall.

Arthur directed a quelling glare at Nemesis and waited for the agitation to fade before helping Merewald onto the saddle. His hands were quick to secure her legs with all the available straps. He would leave nothing to chance but his own safety; Merewald would be safe and secure until Nemesis touched down outside Tintagel Castle and that was all that mattered to him. Arthur snared the reins and led Nemesis away, out into the open air. He mounted behind his aunt and reached around her to grip the reins all over again. It was a stretch...but he’d manage for as long as he needed to. His thighs gripping tightly, Arthur snapped the reins.

The flight seemed to stretch for an eternity, and Merewald continued to lose strength as her frame sagged back against his. Arthur feared that Merewald would leave this plane of existence before he could get her home as she’d wished. He urged Nemesis to go faster and the winged beast listened to him at once. His aunt was still clinging to life when Nemesis descended upon Tintagel and alighted upon the cliffs nearby, the distance between the town and the citadel seeming impossible to cover. Arthur dismounted quickly, unbuckled his aunt immediately, and heaved her from the saddle before cradling her against his chest as he raced for the castle. Her arm draped over his shoulder limply, Merewald lacking the strength to even curl her fingers in his hair. Her head rested against his chest and bounced roughly, his rapid steps jostling her and earning faint groans of incoherent pain.

“Make way,” Arthur bellowed as he ploughed through the bustling town and their startled subjects parted immediately, gasping and shrieking, several women covering their mouths in horror at the sight presented to them. His heart pounding and his broad chest heaving, he forced himself to slow when he reached the rope bridge stretching between Tintagel Castle and the town below. He couldn’t risk falling, not when his cargo was so precious to him. Not when it was vital to reach the castle. He had to ensure her last wishes were carried out before her soul vacated her body, following King Oberon to the otherworld and those that waited for her there: the spirits of her innocent babes and her dearest siblings.

But never the spirit of that damned traitor: the others wouldn’t abide his presence after what he’d done to Merewald or what his actions had led Arthur to suffer at the hands of the King of Camelot and Mercia.

Nor would the High Queen of Avalon tolerate such an injustice.

Arthur had just reached the steps of the castle when Merewald mumbled his name plaintively, her voice faint and breathless with pain. He’d grown accustomed to deciphering the deepening slurs over the last few weeks. He urged her to wait a few moments more and quickened his pace as he mounted the steps ahead of him. The sentries opened the large doors moments before he and Merewald burst through the wide doorway, his vision blurring, and Arthur dropped to his knees to arrange the Queen of Cornwall against his chest at once. He tucked her tired head up under his chin and cradled her close as frantic steps came thundering down the nearest staircase. He couldn’t risk moving, not without hurting Merewald more than he had already, and he knew it wouldn’t be long until the breath left her.

He’d never get her to her bedchamber in time.

He could feel it in his bones.

Gwen breathed the name of his aunt and darted forward immediately, crashing to her knees heavily, the force of the impact bruising. Her circlet sat askew upon her noble brow and her raven curls were a mess. Her bosom heaved beneath the crimson of her gown. Gwen looked flushed with exertion – as though she’d raced through the castle to meet them in the entrance hall and Arthur couldn’t have been more grateful for the support embodied in her.

Swallowing thickly, Arthur began murmuring, giving voice to the softest reassurances as he continued to cradle Merewald close to his heart. His aunt sighed and whatever scraps of tension remained in her limp frame began ebbing away, slowly, one at a time until she was still in his embrace.

The Queen of Cornwall was dead.


	68. Chapter Sixty-Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of love and thanks to all those still reading, waiting, commenting, and leaving kudos after all this time. It means a lot to me. I apologise for the delay, but this chapter took me a while to write. I often didn't have time or energy, due to having to devote so much time to college. But the semester is almost over and then I'll have a break in which I can dedicate more time to this fic. Thanks for understanding!!
> 
> Also note: Safir is an Arthurian Figure. He was a Knight of the Round Table and a Saracen.
> 
> Also, also: I'M GOING TO COINELOT NEXT YEAR, OMFG. I'M SO EXCITED.
> 
> As always, feel free to let me know what you think!

Arthur stared down at the motionless corpse in front of him and felt nothing, nothing but a vast emptiness where there should have been tears. There should have been an outpouring of overwhelming grief at the sight.

But he still couldn’t believe it.

He’d been granted over two months to grow accustomed to the idea of living in a world where he couldn’t send letters to his aunt and it still seemed so foreign to him. He’d been moving through a dense fog for most of the day, disconnected from the world around him unless poked and prodded and cajoled to focus on the here and now.

It was difficult all the same.

Several trusted maids had worked together to wash Merewald with great care and had dressed her as she’d chosen to live while governing the realm around her: chainmail glinted in the torchlight as it draped across her thinner frame. Her black leather belt cinched the hauberk at her waist and highlighted the weight she’d lost over the course of her gradual decline in health. Her crown rested upon her noble brow and her hair had been braided tightly, the familiar length of it trailing over her shoulder and resting against her chest. Her gloved hands were folded over the thick shaft of her axe. A residual shimmer of magic glimmered across her pallid skin after a tendril of magic had slithered down from his chest to preserve her corpse until she could be buried beneath the citadel: no one needed to see their beloved monarch rotting in front of them.

Arthur couldn’t stomach the thought of that in the least. It had been difficult enough to watch her strength slip away, leaving her a weakened shell of herself crippled with pain and fatigue more often than not.

The Queen of Cornwall would lie in state for two weeks. It would give all those who wished to travel from the farthest reaches of the realm time to visit the citadel and offer their respects to the deceased.

Arthur insisted on claiming the first day, knowing Merewald would want a certain amount of time set aside for close members of the family, and needing to have time to grieve without onlookers watching and scrutinising his movements. Being a constant public spectacle was one of the major downsides to being one of the notable figures in the annals of history, no matter how one ended up in them. He’d been crowned that morning, and the phantom weight of that crown rested upon him heavily, reminding him of the immense and experienced shoes he and Gwen had to fill now that Merewald no longer sat upon the throne of Cornwall. Fortunately, the fog that had plagued him hadn’t set in until after the ceremony, after he’d welcomed the oaths from the Knights and the nobles alike. He wasn’t certain how he’d have made it through the morning otherwise: a monarch couldn’t be cajoled into swearing his oaths before the throne. He couldn’t accept oaths under such circumstances either. He’d have to pull himself together before the end of the day; Cornwall and the other realms united under his banner couldn’t wait for him to finish grieving.

Arthur remained at her side well into the evening, waiting for the last round of tears to come at last. But it never came. He stood beside her silently, his face void of expression as he stared at the serenity, the expression of pure peace on the face he’d come to love since his first arrival in Cornwall. He remained until he could no longer bear the silence surrounding him.

Merewald was as cold as stone when Arthur pressed one last kiss against her brow.

Turning quietly, Arthur vacated the large council chamber where his aunt would lie in state. He pressed the door closed gently, bowing his head and taking a moment to breathe before returning to the chambers he’d once used while living in Cornwall and growing accustomed to being a nobleman. He spoke to no one. He looked at no one. But that wasn’t unexpected: none of the guards or servants wanted to disturb him during the initial mourning period. Mealtimes were the one exception to his isolation. He hadn’t even been that hungry, really, but Arthur knew he’d have to eat all the same. He couldn’t revert to that emotional struggle with his weight: he’d worked so hard to start eating regularly, to ignore how his mind had blanched at the thought of putting on weight with each morsel of food placed in front of him.

Arthur undressed slowly, numbly, his mind mulling over his earliest recollections of his aunt and how much she’d come to mean to him in such a short space of time. He crawled into bed sluggishly, almost unaware of the warm tendrils of magic winding around him in an attempt to comfort him amid this strange absence of grief. His hand reached for a pale one automatically, and then faltered at once. The sudden sharp twist of his innards he experienced in that moment was one he knew well at this juncture. Arthur wasn’t certain how long sleep avoided him.

It seemed like hours.

But it could have been mere moments.

In the morning, he woke to find himself feeling as though he hadn’t slept at all.

His frame heavy, Arthur realised he’d somehow emerged from the dense fog that had plagued him the previous day, and felt something akin to acceptance starting to filter through him. Merewald was gone and she wasn’t going to return. But he’d see her again one day; farewells were never permanent when it came to death and leaving loved ones behind. His own demise would come some day, and his beloved kin would greet him on the other side.

That was how death worked and that was fine with him.

Arthur crossed his chambers and began his morning ablutions. His phantom lover fluttered around him all the while and Arthur couldn’t help smiling tiredly, allowing himself to be dressed a while later. Fortunately, he’d left a small collection of clothes behind when he’d become a resident of Dorchester. It wouldn’t do to be seen wearing the same clothes he’d worn the previous day; this would be the morning that set the precedent for his reign over the realm he’d inherited from his aunt and he’d do his best to make her proud. He’d do his best to make his mother and his uncle proud.

His shoulders straightened and his chin rose.

Emrys made minor adjustments to his clothes along the way, and Arthur was pleased to note he’d gained an inch or so of muscle at the shoulders and in his thighs and backside. He looked into the mirror and wasn’t displeased with his reflection. His mourning doublet almost seemed intimidating, the cut of the garment emphasising the muscled expanse of his shoulders and the narrower breadth of his waist. His skin seemed pale in comparison. His jaw seemed sharper, stronger, and his stare stood out in sharp relief against the black of his doublet. He opened the chest that had sat upon his private dining table since the previous evening and stared at the series of crowns that had been made since he’d accepted the role of Crown Prince of Cornwall.

Goldsmiths often spent time considering the coronation of the next monarch and made sure to prepare for such an event. Arthur was certain the three crowns had been prepared long before Merewald learned of her illness. He ran his fingers over the golden curves of each before selecting the smaller and less ostentatious version of the ceremonial crown. It was a fraction larger than the coronet he’d worn as the Crown Prince of Cornwall and would suit him admirably; he’d leave the larger crown for its designated purpose. The third crown was a marvel: he hadn’t expected to see something so effeminate in his collection of crowns. It wasn’t unlike the beautiful circlets he’d seen Gwen wearing, the ones that brought the Fae to mind.

Arthur stared down at the circlet after placing his crown upon his head and wondered when he’d ever have the chance to wear such a delicate thing publically, not to mention whether it could ever be seen as appropriate before the court. He wasn’t a child in the midst of a harmless dare now: he was the King, and the various courts he presided over held certain expectations for his public appearances. He’d come to accept that fact during his time as a Crown Prince and then as a King, both of which came with their own sets of expectations. Usually, the bulk of those expectations happened to overlap and at times the expectations differed. Perhaps he and Merlin might find an appropriate moment for him to wear the circlet one day; Arthur would have to wait and see. He closed the chest and turned away, vacating his chambers with a weight in his stride. He intended to take a walk down through the town and speak with his people. He knew he’d been abrupt and sharp with them when he’d arrived the other day, and he knew his people would understand. Still...he wanted to ensure that his people knew he could be approached whenever necessary, even in the wake of his loss.

His sense of loss could never overshadow the needs of his people.

The castle was quiet and sombre as Arthur moved through the familiar corridors. He wasn’t surprised to notice there were others bearing the same weight in their stride as he did – and all of them were women of various ages that had become archers or had been knighted during the long reign of the late Queen. Some of them had lived almost as long as Merewald had and would have witnessed the moment when the eldest Princess of Cornwall had challenged her father for the right to defend the realm alongside her male peers. Arthur inclined his head in understanding and condolence whenever he encountered these women on his journey, knowing an iconic figure had been taken from them far too soon.

Arthur soon found himself in the town. His people stopped at the sight of him and bowed immediately, their weathered faces pale with lingering shock in the wake of seeing their late monarch in such a poor state of health. Not to mention her unexpected death a few minutes later. Their shock was more than understandable. Arthur spoke to each of them personally, enquiring after health and harvest and ensuring each of them knew he’d be receiving petitions in the afternoon. He spent some time speaking with the children from the township in particular and enquired after their time while he’d been away, wanting to ensure none of them were having troubles with other children in the town.

Nothing pierced his heart quite like seeing an upset child.

Arthur knew too well how isolation and harassment affected children at such a tender age. He never wanted to see his subjects experience what he’d endured as a vulnerable child. Fortunately, the various children of Tintagel didn’t seem to have the same or even similar experiences to what he’d lived through as a child in Camelot. Minor squabbles and some bickering were the worst in store for them at present. Just knowing that put him at ease. It was a relief to know none of them were being treated as he’d been treated as a child.

His spine straightening and his shoulders squaring, Arthur moved through the town and continued on his way, following the path he’d once tread when heading for his lessons out on the water. He wasn’t far from the docklands when one of the distant ropes snapped and destabilised the pulley, sending a large crate of cargo crashing back down amid bellows of fear and warning, but almost too late for the man below. A chilling roar of pain echoed through the sudden stillness and silence on the docklands. His blood pounding and adrenaline spiking, Arthur broke into a run at once and shouted for the now scrambling men to make way, which allowed him to crash to his knees beside the fallen man – Safir, one of the various stalwart men that sailed across the sea with Captain Morien.

Magic reacted to his will in an instant.

It spiralled forward in a swift surge to find the twitching thigh protruding from beneath the crate and found the seam of his trouser leg in the process. Arthur pressed a quick and authoritative hand against a forehead damp with sweat to prevent Safir from looking, from estimating the extent of the damage done to his leg as the fabric of his trouser leg ripped open and fell away, revealing the mangled limb in all its gruesome horror and allowing Arthur to make a rough estimation as to how salvageable it might be in the long run.

Just the sight of the grievous wound churned his stomach: countless splinters of bloodied bones protruded from the sparse amount of leg on display; innumerable tears marred golden brown skin. What remained beneath the crate seemed almost unrecognisable when Arthur glanced in that direction.

Safir strained against the hand holding his head down.

A choked noise escaped him as he tried to see.

Pulsating spirals of warm magic wound around his thigh and slithered down beneath the accursed crate in a single instant.

Safir went limp as the nerves started numbing immediately; it was a blessed reprieve from the grievous injury, and the sudden cessation of blinding pain knocked the unfortunate sailor out cold between one moment of strained horror and the next. The crimson pool of blood spreading across the wooden planks of the pier and staining his trousers soon stopped flowing, and Arthur knew the wound had been placed in stasis.

One of the gathered sailors was running to fetch a healer already, fortunately, and a wave of gratitude for quick thinkers rippled through Arthur at once. Hopefully, the healer working in the castle would arrive at the pier before the fragment of time frozen around the wound thawed and started moving with the rest of the earth again.

It wasn’t a spell meant to be used over extended periods of time.

The full might of Emrys was the one exception to the rule.

Arthur glanced around at the men still swarming, noting how grim each of them looked now after glimpsing the ruined leg. But none looked more grim than Captain Morien and the crew he’d commanded for so long, the lot of them worn and grizzly, having braved countless storms together and sailed the sea together a thousand times over. Safir was the freshest member of the crew: he was decades behind them in age and experience. It made the facts of the matter all the more difficult to swallow. It was more than apparent to all of the sailors gathered that the leg couldn’t be saved – no matter how hard the healer tried to repair the obvious and extensive damage done to muscle and bone. It would be easier to amputate the mangled portion of the leg and salvage what remained undamaged. It wasn’t uncommon for a man working on the sea to have a wooden leg, Arthur knew.

“I want that rope inspected at once. I want someone to check for signs of natural ageing and foul play; we need to be sure this was an accident and nothing more. Then I want the other ropes checked immediately,” Arthur commanded firmly, his tone brisk and authoritative. Several men darted off obediently, murmuring the formal address before doing so. Arthur continued to issue commands as he waited for the healer to arrive and soon the men surrounding the scene of the incident were back to performing their usual duty, though some of them continued to cast grim glances at their unconscious comrade as Arthur unbuckled his belt in preparation for the end of the spell holding the wounded leg in stasis. He cast a shrewd glance down at the leg and calculated the girth of the wounded thigh before adding a notch to his belt with his ancestral blade. He eased the belt around the wounded thigh and prepared the buckle to be tied: he’d wait until the last possible moment to slip the buckle into place and leave the belt secured tight around the ruined leg.

Fortunately, the healer arrived promptly, appearing amid an almost mild vortex of wind – mild compared to the storms that Merlin used to materialise within at least. None could compare to the power that Merlin once wielded and that was how it should be.

The healer was a man he recognised – someone he’d seen around the Druid settlement atop the cliffs on more than one occasion when he’d still been living in Tintagel and attending sessions with Ansgar.

Unfortunately, his name escaped him.

Arthur knew the Druids had been quick to take turns working as healers in the castle while Marian was handling other important matters elsewhere: it was common knowledge that few of them were powerful enough to keep the position on a permanent basis. It was just unfortunate that Marian and her knighted companion were still travelling, sealing the tears between this world and that nightmare realm from which the spriggans had come and abducted vulnerable children from their beds in the middle of the night.

Arthur still shuddered when remembering those foul creatures and he was certain the victims that had survived the experience must still be suffering nightmares in the wake of their trauma. Honestly, he couldn’t blame them. He’d suffered nightmares for long enough himself.

The healer dropped to his knees beside him and swallowed thickly, casting a grim glance at the crate still bearing its weight down upon the ruined leg. Arthur hadn’t dared to move the crate prematurely: he’d learned that interfering with a wound could make matters ten times worse while serving as manservant. The healer exchanged a sharp look with him and said seriously, “Your Majesty, we’ll need to get Safir back to the infirmary; buckle that belt now and we’ll move the crate while the wound is still in stasis.”

Arthur nodded his understanding, his hands quick to secure the buckle in place as the healer raised a hand and began muttering words from the old tongue. His own frame tensed and ready, Arthur watched the healer go rigid with the effort of moving the crate with a controlled burst of magic and then the pair were moving, seizing the prone figure and disappearing amid an almost gentle swirl of wind as the enchantment keeping the wound in stasis snapped out of existence between one moment and the next. The two men and the unconscious patient were soon in the infirmary, a swift tendril of careful magic wrapping around the ruined leg before it could jar against the bed now beneath Safir.

Stepping aside immediately, Arthur remained on standby, unsure whether the magic he carried with him at all times might be required to aid the healing arts during the crucial process. He watched as the healer used magic to sever the strong thigh neatly, slicing through bone and sinew and blood vessels while the flow of blood was at a minimum. He watched as the healer began weaving, his voice soft and lilting, and his magic guiding the blood vessels to forge a new path.

It was an almost mesmerising process.

Arthur pulled his gaze away, unwilling to let the healing magic ensnare him. He wasn’t surprised when the healer soon finished singing, that particular spell drawing to a close as his attention fastened elsewhere. The healer heaved a breath and then released a sigh before continuing, moving on to the next sequence in the healing process. It looked exhausting. Honestly, Arthur was glad the swirling miasma of golden magic that travelled around with him wasn’t his or he’d be exhausted all the time. Gathering the different realms dotted across Albion under his banner was tiring enough without adding exhaustion as the result of using magic to his list of reasons for feeling fatigued at times and he still wasn’t finished the unification process. He was beginning to wonder how exhausted he’d be when the last realm was drawn under his banner or allied with his united realms in some fashion.

The healer was soon on the verge of fainting, but the bulk of the healing process was complete. Arthur stepped forward immediately, providing the last burst of strength required for the healing process. An amputation was one of the few wounds that could not be left to heal naturally; the odds of infection were far too high to risk such a thing. It was best to complete the process now and train the man to use a wooden limb as soon as possible. It would be an adjustment for him...but a manageable one at least. It would just take time to grow accustomed to the change and to the unfamiliar weight of the wooden leg that would soon be commissioned on his behalf.

Arthur and Gwen would handle the matter together. As a longstanding sailor under their official employ, Safir was owed duties of care and compensation from the crown for all injuries incurred while working on the docks or at sea.

A warm swirl of magic channelled through Arthur before winding through the healer and lending strength to complete the healing process. He watched as the skin started knitting together slowly, his stomach turning; it wasn’t unlike watching worms wriggling around upon the vulnerable flesh until the edges converged and fused together at last.

It was disturbing and fascinating in equal measure.

The healer retreated finally, his slender chest heaving, and his cheeks flushed – no doubt from the sensation of having that powerful magic coursing through his veins. Arthur wasn’t unfamiliar with that sensation: with clarity, he could remember the healing magic coursing through him when he’d faced Nimueh in the Crystal Cave. He could remember stumbling back against the wall as his knees threatened to buckle from the sharp surge of sensation. He could remember the noise that had escaped him in that long ago moment. It had almost felt like the pleasure he’d experienced at the hands of his talented master and phantom lover sometime later. Honestly, Arthur wasn’t surprised that the healer looked so flushed after an exposure to such an exquisite rush of magic.

“Your Majesty,” the healer managed to say, his words clear despite his continued panting, “I appreciate the help: amputations aren’t a simple process in the least. I was worried I wouldn’t have enough strength left to heal him completely, and I’m relieved to know help was there when needed.”

“Helping the people is what I’m here for: it was part of the job description when I was first acknowledged as an Heir Apparent.” Arthur waved a dismissive hand at once and unbuckled his belt before slipping it free from the amputated leg. He slung the belt around his waist and buckled it back into place without hesitation. He then retreated from the bedside quickly, wanting the unfortunate sailor to wake naturally, and he gestured for the healer to follow him. Once the two men were a decent distance away, Arthur continued quietly, “But I have to ask: how long will the rehabilitation process take? I’ll need to arrange appropriate compensation for the time he’ll spend learning to walk again.”

“It varies from person to person.”

“That makes sense. It’ll be an enormous change and we all react differently, but still...even a rough estimate would be a great help. I can amend the arrangements when necessary, depending on how the rehabilitation process goes.”

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but I’m afraid we’ll have to wait and see how Safir reacts to losing his leg first. He might have suspected the loss out on the pier...but supposition is far from hard fact. I imagine he’ll be quite upset and difficult to deal with at first. He wouldn’t be the first.” The healer wore a sorrowful expression as he glanced at Safir. He turned to look at Arthur a moment or so later and frowned severely, an expression worn often among healers dealing with grievous injuries. “Waking up to find the bulk of a limb missing carries its own difficulties. Hopefully, his mindset will be manageable before too long, or Captain Morien might have to find himself a new crewmate on a permanent basis. That won’t be a pleasant outcome for Safir or the crew depending upon his recovery, Your Majesty.”

“I imagine not.” Arthur glanced at the unconscious sailor not too far away, and frowned in contemplation before sighing, accepting the detailed response without even a hint of an argument. There was no _point_ in arguing: the healer knew best and Arthur – and the people serving beneath him – had to trust in that knowledge for now. He looked at the healer after a brief pause. “Send word when he wakes: I’d like to speak with Safir as soon as possible.”

Arthur cast another glance at the unfortunate sailor before sweeping away, his shoulders squared and his chin raised despite the troubled frown furrowing his brow. He needed to speak with the men down on the pier as soon as possible: he needed to be sure there was no sign of tampering and if there proved to be no evidence of tampering, he’d have to revise the code of conduct designated for the docklands. He’d have to ensure there were measures in place for safeguarding the wellbeing of the workers. He never wanted another incident like the one he’d witnessed earlier to occur during his reign. It was gruesome and horrific and carried too much consequence for the poor man who’d been harmed while working. Arthur was aware that he couldn’t control what happened at sea...but what happened on the docklands was his responsibility, as all matters that occurred on the land were. It didn’t matter that the docklands straddled the divide between earth and sea.

He’d take care of the docklands.

He’d take care of his people.

The docklands were quiet and sombre when he arrived despite the continued movement of the workers. Captain Morien and several of his crewmembers were on their knees and scrubbing the blood from the boards vigorously; the crate had since been rigged to a new pulley, and moved out of the way, having been set down inside its intended merchant vessel.

“Your Majesty,” Captain Morien greeted grimly, pausing in his scrubbing as Arthur came to a stop in front of the group. Familiar pools of black ink stared up at him from within that weathered face. He threw down his rag and it hit the wooden surface with a wet slapping sound. “How is he? Has he woken up?”

“Not as far as I know.” Arthur crouched and met his gaze evenly, his expression serious. “Safir was still out cold when I left the infirmary, and I’m glad he was. No one should have to witness their own amputation.”

“Shit.” Captain Morien rose to his feet abruptly, and strode away, gesturing for Arthur to follow him at once. Arthur did so without question and watched the man who’d taught him how to listen to the sea run a tired hand over his weathered face. “Your Majesty, I’d hoped our speculations were wrong. This changes things. How soon can Safir sail with us again?”

“I don’t know.”

“ _Shit_.”

“Hey,” Arthur answered consolingly, reaching out to touch his shoulder as the pair came to a stop at the end of the pier. Waves rolled beneath them endlessly, swirling and sloshing around the poles that had been driven deep down into the ground beneath the surface of the sea. Arthur was almost certain magic had been used to accomplish this feat. A breeze ruffled their hair as he looked at the weathered sailor. “This isn’t the end of the world. I’m sure the crew can find someone to fill in until Safir can return to work.”

“We won’t be able to find a replacement before the morning,” Captain Morien replied sharply, tossing a hard glance at him. Something akin to dread glimmered in the black depths of his stare. His jaw tightened a fraction. “Not a replacement I could trust at least. I need to know their strengths and weaknesses and those aren’t something I can learn overnight.”

“Then I’ll take his place for now.” Arthur stared at the weathered sailor and spoke firmly, cutting him off before the inevitable protest when Captain Morien opened his mouth at once. He raised an authoritative hand. Resolve burned through him. “I can’t expect these people to do what I’m unwilling to handle when the situation arises. You know me well enough to trust me on the water. You trained me for this. I can handle whatever the ocean throws at me.”

“Those are fighting words and she’ll rise to the challenge before long.” Captain Morien raised a hand to cuff his head and then aborted the familiar gesture abruptly, a frustrated noise escaping him as he remembered that Arthur was no longer his student and no longer an inexperienced prince. Arthur was a King, and cuffing a man in such a position was out of the question at this juncture. Captain Morien shook his head again and ran another tired hand over his face. Something verging on defeatism was beginning to flicker across his weathered features even as he looked at Arthur between the spread of his fingers. He made another attempt to dissuade Arthur from his course of action. “We’d be honoured to sail with Your Majesty, but doing so would run the risk of coming home with a corpse. I can’t risk getting the King of Cornwall killed now. You just accepted the job!”

“And now I’m accepting this one.”

“You’re not even listening,” Captain Morien argued at once. He pinched the bridge of his nose as a strangled laugh escaped him. His shoulders quaked for a moment or so before Captain Morien managed to regain control of his reactions to the direction of their discussion. His tone grew gruffer as he continued to speak against the notion. “I should’ve known this would be the response I’d get. Is sheer recklessness what grief looks like on a Pendragon? Actually, don’t answer that. I think this might be the de Bois side coming out for once.”

“You won’t be able to dissuade me.”

“I’m starting to see that.” Captain Morien bowed his head and the sound of the rolling waves broke through the silence now developing between them. He heaved a sigh and his chest deflated before he continued quietly, looking at Arthur once more. “Is the line of succession secure? I’m not agreeing to this madness unless the position Her Grace has as the next in line is secured and the realm can rest in safe hands.”

“You needn’t worry; I’m not a fool.”

“ _That_ is debatable right now and I’m twice as much o a fool for conceding defeat on the matter.” Captain Morien laughed gruffly, and shook his head before turning and storming away, beckoning him to follow with a wave of his rough hand. Arthur did so at once: following the commands of his former mentor was familiar and instinctive. “Her Grace is going to murder me when she finds out.”

“You’re overreacting,” Arthur replied easily, firmly, though he cast a somewhat amused glance at the man walking alongside him. The pair ducked almost as one to avoid the wide swing of a large crate as it was loaded onto a vessel destined for Hibernia and straightened as one a moment later. “Gwen would never do that: she knows what arguing with me is like. I made this choice and no one else.”

“You’d be surprised what a woman is capable of doing when the people she loves are endangered for no damned reason.” Captain Morien glanced up at the castle as the pair neared the crewmates still scrubbing the deck of the pier and something seemed to swell within the weathered sailor as Arthur glanced at him. He looked at Arthur after a moment and his stare was heavy, burdened with something dark and unnameable. He looked as though an immense weight had settled upon his aged shoulders. “Even the kindest women are capable of terrible deeds – just like the rest of us.”

“You’re capable of terrible deeds?” Arthur blinked in surprise and his sudden lack of momentum forced Captain Morien to slow down. He stared at his former mentor as Captain Morien continued to look straight ahead. “I wouldn’t have expected that. You seemed as decent as a man could be when we last spoke.”

“You don’t know me well enough to judge what kind of man I am.” Captain Morien glanced over his shoulder and then kept walking, his shoulders tight with tension. Wisps of white hair fluttered around his head as the breeze rippled past. “You knew me for a wet minute. We all have secrets. We all have things we don’t about. I’ve been alive longer than Her Majesty, bless her soul. You know nothing about me.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“I don’t care.” Captain Morien quickened his stride and reached the gathered crew a moment later. Arthur remained frozen for a moment or so before marching forward and joining them at once. Captain Morien spoke sharply, his tone gruff and authoritative. He stood before his subordinates like a man on a mission: he seemed almost possessed with purpose. “Change of plans: the King has volunteered to join us in the morning, and I want the Ygraine prepared to sail before this afternoon is through. I don’t want to see a single thread out of place when I board this evening. Is that understood?”

A miniscule grain of doubt flickered through Arthur when the available members of the crew drained of colour almost simultaneously, their strong frames tensing, but no one argued with the decision made. None of them would dare to question a King. Captain Morien was the one sailor that carried that much sheer nerve and Arthur was starting to wonder how he’d managed to become so insubordinate – how he managed to seem like a faithful subject and a rogue at the same time.

It vexed him.

But he was determined to find out soon enough.


	69. Chapter Sixty-Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter isn't accurate historically, but I'm claiming artistic license.
> 
> A big thanks to all those still reading/commenting/leaving kudos. It means the world to me. Each response to the fic just encourages me to keep going, and I'm glad because I love working on this fic despite how long it is and how tiring it can be at times. I hope people will continue to love it alongside me. 
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think! I love hearing your thoughts.
> 
> Good luck in 2018, folks!

There was no sign of foul play, Arthur was relieved to learn. What happened down on the pier had been nothing more than an unfortunate accident. But it didn’t make the situation easier to swallow for the unfortunate man in the infirmary, who’d fallen into an abrupt silence at the sight of his diminished limb beneath the blankets when he woke up. Arthur had visited Safir the previous evening, not long after supper, but hadn’t managed to have a mutual conversation with him. But he’d made sure to mention that he’d be compensated while on leave and that a wooden limb would be commissioned for him as soon as measurements were taken.

Safir hadn’t answered.

It wasn’t an unexpected response: the healer had warned him that Safir had fallen into a shock of some sort. His crewmates had come to visit him not long after Arthur had vacated the bedside and Captain Morien had stared at Safir grimly, his mouth curling down in growing concern. His crewmates had remained with him until the healer ushered them out the door sometime before midnight.

The crew were a quiet bunch this morning, but Arthur couldn’t blame them. He was sure the lot of them were thinking about the crewmember still in the infirmary, unable to sail with them for the first time in a long time. He was sure none of them wanted an interloper aboard the ship when the season of winter storms was looming closer and closer on the horizon. Unfortunately, there were some things out of their control and the need for someone to stand in for Safir until the sailing season came to a close was one of them. His chin rising and his shoulders squaring, Arthur mounted the gangway, a burlap sack slung over his shoulder and his signet ring resting with his adoptive sister.

Gwen hadn’t been shocked when Arthur came to her the previous evening, though she hadn’t been pleased in the least. Still...she hadn’t argued with him and he’d appreciated that more than the world.

“Just be careful.” Gwen had cast a stern glance at him across the private dining table separating them in her chambers as Arthur had cradled his niece against his chest for the first time in months. He’d bestowed a dozen tender kisses against her small head and had inhaled the scent of her soft skin. Her growing hair had tickled his face. He hadn’t been able to help smiling, his adoration and love for Rhoswen strengthening with each precious moment that passed. “We can’t let something go wrong now – not after making so much progress. You’re so close to reclaiming our home from that accursed bastard.”

“I know that.” Arthur had flicked his attention in her direction for a moment before focusing upon Rhoswen all over again: babies needed love and attention after all. He’d learned that much since he’d fled Camelot. “I haven’t forgotten. I know how far I’ve come since the beginning, but I need to do this. The position needed filling, and Captain Morien needed someone he could trust to fill that position and he can trust me. I’m doing what I have to and nothing more than that: trade is a vital function of the realm and our coffers depend upon it. Surely, you can see where I’m coming from.”

Gwen hadn’t argued the point he’d made.

The dock was quieter than usual – other men were just beginning to trickle down for work even as the crew ran through numerous last minute checks in preparation for setting sail for Hispania. The sun was beginning to rise over the horizon and the castle loomed behind him. Captain Morien was waiting at the top of the gangway, his arms folded across his chest and his expression serious. He held a rolled map in his hand.

“Good morning, Captain.”

“We’ll see about that.” Captain Morien pressed the map into his hand and added gruffly, “Memorise the course I’ve plotted and then return the map to me. You remember how to read the stars at night?”

“Of course I do.” Arthur scowled in irritation at his former mentor as he accepted the map and followed the elder man aboard the ship. “I still use that method when travelling at night – just to make sure I don’t forget. I haven’t forgotten a single thing I learned down here. Am I going to get poked and prodded until I make a mistake and get tossed overboard before I even reach Hispania? You don’t need to be such a sceptic!”

“I need to be sure.”

“You’re just not comfortable with sudden changes and having me aboard this vessel is a big one. I can understand that.” Arthur spoke sagely, his irritated scowl easing, and a smile beginning to curl his mouth. Captain Morien snorted in faint amusement as he glanced over his shoulder and arched a brow at him in response. “Don’t look at me like that. You know I speak the truth on this: we grew quite close during those lessons and I know at least enough to make _some_ claims.”

Captain Morien shook his head and looked away; he gestured for him to get on with memorising the course he’d plotted before he did throw him overboard – for wasting time and draining the modicum of patience existing in his veins. His smile broadening, Arthur found himself a quiet corner of the ship while the other crewmen ran through the last few checks and unrolled the map. He inhaled the strong scent of brine as he followed the plotted journey, the dots of dark ink leading from Tintagel and down to Al-Lixbuna on the western coast of Hispania. The new name of the foreign port was strange on his tongue. But it sounded interesting; far more so than the name the Roman Empire had used for the port previously, and he wondered what language it came from.

Arthur knew there were strong Greek and Roman and Saxon influences across the broad span of the continent and that the Moorish regions were growing constantly, as was natural and to be expected. People and vegetation weren’t that different: each one was meant to grow and spread and flood the earth with vibrancy, with different textures and colours and scents and flavours. The earth was one of the largest pots of simmering ingredients in existence and it was beautiful. A gentle simmer in the large pot of life was so much more than important. It was necessary; prolonged boiling would soon bring the contents to ruin. Arthur knew at least that much from personal experience: he’d prepared his fair share of stews since he was a boy, and a pot under careful observation and gentle guidance never boiled.

Captain Morien and the crew serving under him set sail less than an hour later and Arthur couldn’t quash the overwhelming surge of anticipation rushing through his veins. He’d never sailed aboard such a large and demanding vessel before and he’d never been so far out to sea in the past. But he had a strong grasp of the intricacies of sailing, and understood the importance of teamwork intimately, and he was certain that he’d prove to be useful to some degree. Whether he’d be useful enough to be considered an asset was a different question. Arthur hoped so. He didn’t want to let Captain Morien down in the least: even though he was doing so temporarily, he had large shoes to fill and he wanted to fill them as well as he could. He’d do his best to do so. He’d do his best to make Captain Morien proud of having trained him. He’d do his best to make his uncle and his mother proud of how enthusiastic and willing he’d been to embrace the long history, the standing legacy, of braving the crashing waves far from the shore and tasting the salt on the air as the cool breeze weaved through his clothes.

Almost on the verge of being giddy, both from the sensation of having the breeze filtering through his clothes and the imminent journey, Arthur threw himself into his duties aboard the Ygraine.

The ship sailed seamlessly, the prow cutting through the waves with ease as Arthur and the other crewmen darted around large crates weighed down with goods – all of which were strapped down for good measure. Arthur and the others moved to and fro across the deck: to help balance the ship when the waves grew large and unsteady; the mainsail flooded with the breath of the world all the while. It was a privilege to be sailing across the waves among such fine men despite the circumstances that caused the situation in the first place. It was a privilege to feel the wind in his hair and to feel the soft spray, the faint droplets of salted water that christened him as the Ygraine cut through the waves like a blade. It was cool and refreshing, almost like being kissed with a soft mist on a warm afternoon at the height of summer.

Not that it was that warm out on the sea.

Truthfully, there was a chill in the air.

But that chill was a mere hint of the winter now approaching steadily, of the oncoming storms building, which would threaten homes and lives alike when the time came. Fortunately, his people were hardy, and had weathered so much in the past that the oncoming storms would just be another notch in their metaphorical belts. He was proud of his people for having braved so much hardship as a united front. That was what he wanted for the rest of Albion – for the people spread across the various realms to come together in unity, building communities for their own benefit and the benefit of those living alongside them. That was the future he wanted to build with the help of Merlin and his powerful magic. He wanted a land free of exploitation and tyranny, free of injustice and anguish. He wanted a land where betterment was the goal of the day, and not just for the end of the four seasons.

But that was something for later contemplation.

Arthur had to focus right now.

The first week went easily; the wind was their companion and flooded their sail for hours on end. It was a blessed surprise. Arthur and the other members of the crew were able to take turns resting, catching up on sleep while their comrades worked to keep the ship on course throughout the lengthening nights. The crewmen were able to trade random anecdotes and jokes and build upon their profound camaraderie. Arthur continued to be on the fringe of the group at times despite the efforts Captain Morien made to integrate him into the seamless flow of the crew working aboard the Ygraine. A captain needed a cohesive unit at his command and there was an unspoken tension between Arthur and the men surrounding him. It was a bit isolating, but he’d expected nothing less. Arthur might have acquired some skill with sailing, and he might have been their favoured Crown Prince and might now be their new King, but he hadn’t earned his place aboard the ship. He’d just waltzed in and said he was going, refusing to back down even when the captain of the ship protested his involvement.

Arthur knew what that looked like.

It looked like he was throwing his political weight around to get what he wanted and damn the consequences his actions might incur. He was an interloper aboard the ship. He understood their reluctance to welcome him into the fold. But he hoped circumstances would change before the ship returned to Albion for the winter.

If the first was week was easy, the second week was a different matter altogether. It was comprised of swirling winds that howled from all directions and powerful waves that grew dark and choppy, fighting the ship at all hours of the day; Arthur lost count of the times he’d been slapped with a strong wave of cold water as he’d pulled on this rope upon the shouted command of his captain or reached for that oar to help combat the waves while the sail flopped around uselessly, battered from all sides before the men could secure the sail to the mast. He lost count of the times he’d been knocked on his arse or almost thrown overboard when his foot slipped in the cold water splashing across the deck beneath him.

“I thought the storms weren’t coming until the winter!”

“This is nothing,” Captain Morien answered gruffly, slamming against one of the crates tied down when the ship rose with a large wave and then plummeted back down when it broke beneath the keel. He shouted to be heard over the wailing wind as he clung to the crate for a moment. “Dôn is just clearing her throat before her main performance!”

Just hearing her name sent a chill down his spine.

Arthur had read about Dôn during his studies when he’d served as a manservant beneath the Crown Prince of Camelot and Mercia: she was one of the most fickle deities to roam the earth when she wasn’t at home in the otherworld. Dôn governed the winds and waves. She was the immense shadow that fell upon the land at winter. She also presided over trust and the delicate bonds between family, and her various children ruled over light and battle and the purest evil. She was wondrous and terrible. Strangely, some of the older texts – the tomes so old that Arthur had been almost afraid to touch their delicate pages in the first place – even referred to her as a man at times. Dôn seemed to be an almost fluid figure based on what he’d read in those tomes – at least compared to some of the other deities he’d read about during his studies.

Fervently, Arthur hoped he’d never meet her in the future. The unexpected encounter with King Oberon had been stressful and alarming enough. He never wanted to meet another being from the otherworld again – Marian was the one exception to that rule. He hoped to meet Marian again soon. He had some questions he wanted to ask about the sword she’d stolen and hidden away; the countless hours he’d spent searching the old texts in Dorchester had led him to numerous passages about swords that vanished from the annals of history, swords that carried untold power after being burnished in flames steeped with ancient magic.

One of the last two blades mentioned in the annals that matched that description had belonged to Queen Artura Pendragon and it had been lost to time alongside the grave she’d shared with her dearest wife and most trusted mage. When Artura Pendragon had turned twenty, she’d pulled the sword from a stone that had been set at the heart of the old castle in Camelot or so the annals claimed. It had been set there several centuries previously; one of the various incarnations of Merlin had set it there and sworn that no one could draw the sword from stone except the rightful High King, pouring his magic into that one act before collapsing and passing away, having aged himself before the entire court in doing so.

Just thinking about such an event struck a chord of grief within Arthur. He never wanted Merlin to die for him or choose to die as a result of losing him. But he didn’t like to think about that prospect. He focused his mind upon the powerful blades instead.  

Blades imbued with such immense power could cut through the most powerful enchantments and aid the wielder in their quest for peace or victory, and Arthur suspected that was the fate of the sword Marian had stolen from Tom when he was a child. He wanted to ensure it didn’t fall into the wrong hands – like the blade that had slain the last Queen Consort of Albion and cast the land back into discord when the High Queen fell in her immediate wake.

Arthur might have thought more on the matter, but for the violent wind that wrenched the sail free from its fastenings on the mast. One of the ropes struck him in the head before he had a chance to duck and sent him toppling; he hit the deck hard and went sliding, the wet surface hauling him away, while the other crewman shouted curses over the howling wind while fighting the waves with their oars.

“Your Majesty,” Captain Morien roared roughly, diving after him without an ounce of hesitation as the ship listed hard to the right. He slammed into Arthur, the pair of them careening into the wall of the ship together, grappling for purchase on the slick wood and each other as the ship threatened to toss them overboard. Arthur cursed loudly, his heart pounding with relief within the confines of his constricting throat as his phantom lover reacted immediately, strong vines of golden magic snaring their waists and chests like a harness and securing them both to the mast some distance away. Captain Morien scrabbled to ensure he was unharmed once the magic had them both secured safely, his dark stare wide and terrified as he shouted gruffly, “I want to know the moment something doesn’t feel right! You took a hard blow!”

“I’ll be fine! Concentrate on getting the ship through the damned storm!”

Arthur and the captain stumbled to their feet together quickly, clutching each other until their sense of balance returned despite the rising and falling and twisting of the ship as the winds and waves crashed against them. Captain Morien cast one last look at him and then darted away, nodding in respect and understanding, and Arthur dove for the rope that had decked him as it flailed around and attempted to disable another member of the crew.

The crewman managed to duck at the last second.

Arthur slid past the crewman less than a moment later and seized the rope with both hands. Unfortunately, the howling wind didn’t want to relinquish its grip and almost wrenched his arms from their sockets as Arthur shouted in pain. He slammed into one of the crates and heaved with all his might as two other crewmen scaled the mast bravely, and quite recklessly, wrenching the sail free of the violent wind as the ship continued to rise high and plummet with the powerful waves. His muscles strained with the effort of fighting the storm and Arthur was glad that his phantom lover was there to keep him secured to the ship as the storming sea tossed him and the other crewmen around like small and insignificant pebbles.

Dôn was making herself heard.

Eventually, however, the winds did die away, allowing the waves to calm down as the crew slumped with exhaustion after a week of fighting the storm and gaining large bruises where the sun never shined. No small amount of scrapes and cuts decorated their weather-beaten faces. Arthur refused to let his phantom lover ease his cuts or bruises in the least – he wanted to heal from the almost overwhelming experience right alongside the other members of the crew. Already, the unspoken tension was beginning to fade away, and he wanted that to continue. Sometimes he received tired and respectful nods from the other crewmen and he was clapped on the shoulder once or twice as the Ygraine trudged across the remaining distance separating them from Al-Lixbuna. Fortunately, the storm had pushed them further south despite having pushed them further out to sea as well.

It was now an almost straight line east to the port.

Arthur could have slept for Albion when the ship docked at last a week later and cast their ropes out to the various men lining the foreign pier – men that looked more like Safir and the gruff captain than other men he’d seen during his time as a manservant and then as a nobleman. Some of the foreign men were dressed oddly; their colourful trousers stopped at the knee and tucked in slightly, leaving the upper section puffed. Just the sight of them threatened to pull an exhausted chuckle from Arthur. Others wore burnouses and leather girdles over their ganduras – Arthur had learned of those while sailing, listening to the other crewman exchanging tales of their past experiences in Al-Lixbuna.

Turbans were common on the pier.

Piercings were also common among the men working on the pier and that concept marvelled Arthur completely; it was interesting to see common men wearing something so beautiful and sparkling, something so effeminate and which lacked the embellishments of ruling power that crowns and other such items carried.

It was wonderful.

The lurid colours and numerous sparkles dotted across the pier distracting him momentarily, Arthur jolted with surprise when Captain Morien clapped him on the shoulder and suggested he take a rest now that the ship had docked. But he refrained from doing so out of stubbornness and pride. Arthur refused to sleep until the crates were unloaded and the other crewmen could do the same. He didn’t want special privileges. He just wanted to feel like a regular member of the crew. It didn’t matter that he was their King – not to him at least. He was just a regular man that loved to be on the ocean and the exhaustion was just an unfortunate side effect of being able to do what he loved. He could handle it as well as the others. Arthur managed to remain upright and moving until late in the evening, though grit seemed to prickle beneath his lashes whenever he blinked and his limbs weighed him down more with each new step he forced himself to take. He stumbled into his designated corner once all the crates had been unloaded and the captain had handled the transactions impressively, considering the fact that he looked as exhausted as Arthur felt.

Arthur curled up with his burlap sack tucked under his head and was out cold less than a moment later. The last thing he knew was that tendrils of golden magic had enveloped him tenderly, protectively, as it so often did when he slept. Honestly, he was almost spoiled for love and affection at this point. Arthur knew nothing more until the next morning, his stomach growling loudly, and his mouth parched. His frame was stiff as a board and aching, but it mattered little as he eased himself up from the deck of the ship and looked around for the other crewmen. No one but Captain Morien remained aboard the Ygraine and the man in question was gazing across the horizon with a pensive expression on his weathered face.

Arthur ran a hand over his face and grimaced. He felt grimy, but that wasn’t unexpected after three weeks at sea. He doubted he looked that appealing right now. He ran a hand through his hair and grimaced all over again: he needed a long soak in the nearest bath and a pair of phantom hands to scrub the sweat and natural oils from his hair before long. He’d have to suffer through the griminess for now and find a public bath sometime in the afternoon. He scratched at his belly, grumbling, his mouth turning down at the thought of looking like this for much longer.

Captain Morien glanced at him and chuckled almost warmly, rising from where he sat and announcing gruffly, “You look like a disgruntled kitten.”

“I resent that remark.” Arthur huffed in irritation and pressed the heels of his hands against his lids for a moment. A ripple of lingering tiredness ran through him. He rubbed his hands down his face and peered at the ageing captain through his fingers. “We both know I’m more like a hound: fierce and dependable and excitable. I’m nothing like one of those lazy, distant and impertinent felines.”

“Obviously, you’ve never had a cat.” Captain Morien snorted in blatant amusement and shook his head. He clapped him on the back and went on to say, “Come on: the others went to the public bath this morning, and I’m sure a hot bath would do us both some good right now.”

Arthur retrieved his burlap sack from his corner on the ship and disembarked alongside the captain. Wonderingly, Arthur cast his gaze around the streets as he was assailed with the new sights and sounds of the city, catching snippets of conversations in a language he didn’t understand. A few people called out to Captain Morien cheerfully, and the captain answered briskly, his skill with the language obvious and almost enviable. Arthur stared at the man in growing surprise and couldn’t help blurting, “What language is that?”

“Andalusi Arabic.”

“You sounded fluent!”

“Because I am fluent.” Captain Morien shrugged his weathered shoulders and took a moment to greet someone passing by, someone who responded with great enthusiasm and clapped him on the shoulder with a warm laugh before continuing on. “I learned the language when I was a child: I had kin that used to live here before moving to Cornwall.”

“What drove them to emigrate?”

“Honestly, it was just a series of poor decisions.” Captain Morien spoke sharply, his jaw clenching, and he avoided looking at Arthur – who couldn’t help wondering whether the captain was conceived out of wedlock or the result of some adulterous affair. Not that it mattered much in the long run. It made no difference to how he viewed the man. Captain Morien huffed after a moment of silence as Arthur ran through a list of questions he could ask in order to keep the conversation going and looked askance at him. “You can forget about those questions whirring around inside that skull: I’d rather not talk about the past right now. I just want to have a bath and relax.”

Arthur nodded in understanding, swallowing his questions at once and allowing a comfortable silence to develop between them as the pair continued to meander through the foreign streets. He took note of the various twists and turns and landmarks and developed a mental map to be stored for possible ventures made in the future. The pair of them came upon the public bath soon enough and Arthur admired the establishment immediately; there was something rather beautiful about the old stone framework that hailed back to the Roman Empire. A few coins gained them entrance and Captain Morien led him into the caldarium. Arthur knew that public baths had three chambers designated for bathing: the caldarium for heated bathing; the tepidarium for lukewarm bathing; and the frigidarium for cold bathing. The open space was light and airy, soft morning light spilling across a deep pool of shimmering water in front of them. Tendrils of seductive steam curled above the caldarium.

A few men were bathing, but none that Arthur recognised and that thought was somewhat daunting; he’d never stripped down to nothing in front of strangers before. His heartbeat quickening, Arthur glanced at Captain Morien as the elder man began stripping without a care in the world. The captain gazed at the steaming water with no small amount of eagerness before wading into its depths with an audible sigh of pleasure and relief. His weathered frame relaxed in an instant. A moment or so passed before Arthur managed to follow suit and descended the marble steps leading into the steaming pool in the wake of his captain.

The hot water was exquisite against his tired and aching body, and Arthur almost groaned at the sensation. He was glad he hadn’t let the presence of strange men prevent him from experiencing this pleasure after spending so long at sea. He waded into the depths until the steaming water reached his chest and then he began bathing, after fumbling to catch the bar of soap Captain Morien tossed at him without warning. He luxuriated in the heat surrounding him and the scrubbing of his fingertips as he tackled the lank strands of his hair first. It felt so good to lather up with soap and massage his scalp after the stressful weeks he’d had at sea. But he made sure to be careful with some places: he was still tender after being struck with the rope during the storm.

Honestly, Arthur was amazed that he hadn’t been concussed when the rope had struck him and sent him toppling, careening towards the turbulent waves that would have claimed his life with so much ease. He supposed that at least some of the gods had been looking out for him during the storm. Dôn hadn’t cared what happened to him – that much was obvious enough. Perhaps she’d even wrenched the ropes from their fastenings on purpose. Arthur might never know for sure unless he spoke to their representatives on earth and even then it was doubtful he’d be told something that wasn’t shrouded in befuddling enigmatic sentences. The men and women and creatures that spoke for the gods or foretold the paths fate would take were almost never clear on such important matters.

Sighing somewhat heavily, Arthur focused upon bathing. It wouldn’t do to get distracted now. He didn’t want to spend too much time naked in front of strangers. He and Captain Morien finished bathing almost simultaneously, and then the pair changed into fresh clothes pulled from their burlap sacks before heading out into the streets. It felt so good to be clean again.

Unexpectedly, Captain Morien headed deeper into the large city, gesturing for Arthur to follow. He did so without question – though he did glance in the direction of the ship briefly, wondering when the two of them would return to her. Captain Morien led him through the streets and pointed things out gruffly, explaining their historical and cultural importance as the pair of them ambled past. Arthur listened intently, his gaze soft with wonderment as he admired other vestiges from the Roman Empire and the newer buildings to mark the change in leadership and faith.

The pair soon came upon the market.

The market was vast and bustling, flooded with vibrancy, and Arthur saw countless stalls selling things he’d never seen before. He was drawn to the stalls selling fruit and vegetables almost at once. He admired the vivid spheres that reminded him of the sun and handed a few coins to the elder merchant – who laughed and gushed at him in Andalusi Arabic when Arthur bit into the skin and grimaced at the unpleasant tang that accosted his tongue. Not to mention the waxen texture. His captain buried his face in his hand beside him while his shoulders quaked with silent laughter. Awash with embarrassment and uncertainty, Arthur handed the fruit back to the merchant and watched as she dug into the vibrant skin of the fruit and began peeling, revealing something soft and delicate. Some juice ran down her wizened wrist as she handed the fruit back to him with an amused smile and pinched his cheek.

Flushing with mortification that the elder woman was acting so motherly, or perhaps even acting grandmotherly, Arthur accepted the fruit and ignored the warm sting in his cheek. He ignored the fact that Captain Morien was still laughing at him. He tried the soft and delicate fruit in his hand instead and smiled immediately, the juice fresh and cool on his tongue. It was much more pleasant that the peel. Arthur beamed at the merchant and nodded his thanks before moving away, popping another segment of the strange fruit into his mouth and glancing at the captain speculatively, muttering, “You could have warned me.”

“Some lessons should be learned firsthand.”

“You’re just using that as an excuse to laugh at me.” Arthur shook his head and turned his face away, smiling to himself as the captain continued to walk at his side. He looked at the fruit in his hand in wonderment. “What on earth am I eating, anyway?”

“You’re eating an orange.”

“Interesting,” Arthur answered thoughtfully, still looking at the orange in his hand. It didn’t look so appealing on the inside. Honestly, he’d preferred the vibrant appearance of the outer skin – it was unfortunate that it tasted vile. “I wonder what other delights this place offers.”

“You’ll find out.”


	70. Chapter Sixty-Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, folks. I hope people had a good New Years!
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think!

Truer words had never been spoken: Arthur did discover what else the foreign port offered while meandering through the various interconnecting streets. Captain Morien returned to the ship while Arthur devoted himself to exploring the city, losing himself in the sights and sounds that attracted him while he had the chance. He wasn’t sure when he’d ever return to this place. So he devoted himself to whatever took his fancy, and soon lost count of the foreign fruit and vegetables he tried. Not to mention the spiced delicacies that threatened to set fire to his stomach. Tasting the various foods he encountered was a wonderful experience and he doubted he’d ever again experience something as exquisite in the future spreading out ahead of him.

Arthur went on to explore the dingier streets that weren’t often travelled despite the increased risk of thievery, and doled out whatever coins he could spare to those begging, to those looking haggard and hungry, desperate for the smallest scrap of kindness and profuse in their gratitude when such kindness was shown. He just wished he could do more for them while he roamed the port. But this wasn’t his realm and he forced himself to remember that as he moved on reluctantly, hardening his heart against the tears he’d witnessed in some cases.

Arthur was in the process of returning to the ship in the late evening when he noticed something glowing, illuminating what should have been a darkened alley, and he stopped at once. He stared at the familiar blue light and how it illuminated the two faces leaning over a small table in the distance. He watched in shocked silence as one of the figures wailed in inconsolable grief and broke away, fleeing from whatever the glowing depths had showed them. He remained agape as the remaining figure still awash in the blue glow smiled at him conspiratorially, raising a wizened hand and beckoning him closer without speaking a word. Arthur crossed the distance between them before realising what he was doing and then stopped abruptly, a few feet away, his heart thundering as he remembered the silver stare he’d seen in the Crystal Cave.

“Come and take a seat.”

“Why,” Arthur asked sharply, his stomach becoming a sudden writhing mass of nerves. His heart jumped into his throat as he looked at the witch that continued to watch him like a hawk. She’d spoken the tongue of his homeland with a strong accent and her possession of the crystal made it obvious that she’d once roamed the lands of Albion. She’d stolen from the Crystal Cave itself. She might even know his name and the position he was keeping secret while walking the streets of Al-Lixbuna unannounced. Arthur made sure to take note of her features – he might need to recall them later. He wasn’t sure whether he ever would. But it was best to be prepared. Iron weaved through her brown curls. A deep brown gaze framed a large nose and kohl emphasised her dark lashes. Arthur returned his attention to the blue glow that reminded him of the tenderness of love and the crushing weight of cold terror in the same instant. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “What will I see?”

“It will show the truth and nothing more than that.” The witch smirked as her gaze grew heavy, attention fastening upon the glowing depths in front of her. “I don’t control the visions: I have no control over customers and their unspoken desires. But what does it matter? Past...present...future? The truth can never be escaped. You will find out eventually, no matter what happens in this moment.”

Arthur hesitated for a long moment and then approached slowly, settling down opposite the stranger and fetching a coin from his purse. It was one of the few coins he had left after his adventures that afternoon – there were enough remaining to purchase supper and perhaps a drink at a local tavern before the ship would be loaded with merchandise in the morning and the ship would set sail. He handed the coin to the witch. He hesitated for a moment before wrapping his hands around the base of the crystal and allowing his gaze to grow heavy, falling into the meditative trance he’d learned to find so easily, his senses locating the swirling eddies of magic and sinking deep. His breath hitched within his chest as a familiar face appeared at the heart of the blue light.

Merlin was chuckling; the sound was deep and gravelly, nothing like the warm and immature giggles Arthur had heard so often when he’d served as a manservant beneath the Crown Prince of Camelot and Mercia. He was paler than Arthur could ever remember him being, and the dark facial hair that framed his plush mouth and extended to the large ears half-concealed with curling hair made his pallor twice as apparent. It was more than obvious that Merlin was still growing accustomed to leaving his chambers and venturing out into the sunshine. It was the same beard that haunted his dreams now and then. Seeing the beard made him wonder how wild and unkempt Merlin must have looked in the last few months of his imprisonment before the enchantment had been placed upon him.

Several strands of premature silver glimmered whenever the sun kissed his raven locks – a sure sign that the man he loved had been under immense duress during his long months of imprisonment. More importantly, the warmth in his stare had been replaced with something akin to cold detachment and Arthur couldn’t help the distressed noise that escaped him at the sight.

Arthur couldn’t tear his gaze away; he hadn’t seen Merlin outside of his dreams and memories for so long and this brief glimpse wasn’t enough to sate him in the least. He wouldn’t be sated until Merlin was safe in his arms. His heart thumping, Arthur watched as the man he loved descended the steps leading down from the castle and glanced over his shoulder quickly, the cold detachment melting into a warm smile as a blonde woman in a blue gown followed delightedly, beaming as she caught up with Merlin.

Loose curls danced around her fair shoulders and a fine silver necklace attached to a dragon pendant glittered at the base of her throat. She linked arms with Merlin and matched his stride with ease.

“I was worried I’d have to cancel our ride this morning.” Merlin smiled down at her warmly, his hand coming to cover hers at once as the pair continued walking alongside each other. Something akin to the soft twinkle he’d worn whenever he conspired with Arthur burst into being. “I’m glad I was wrong: I’ve been looking forward to this outing all week!”

“I’d never cancel!” The noblewoman walking alongside Merlin and insinuating herself into his life started laughing, the sound warm and bright. She was quite pretty, though in an understated fashion. “You know how much I love horses!”

Arthur did his best to ignore the sharp piercing pain that buried itself in his stomach as he realised the pair were courting. He watched the pair of them approach a pair of horses being prepared for a ride that morning, both of which were familiar. His beloved charger reared in anger as Merlin approached and neighed aggressively, fierce gaze fastened upon Merlin – whose expression twisted instantly, anger and hatred dissolving the smile that had been present at once. The noblewoman looked between her companion and the distressed charger in confusion before darting forward to seize the reins from the struggling stable hands. Hengroen was one of the fiercest horses in the stable. Arthur watched the stranger calm his horse down slowly, carefully, her expression soft and her voice even softer. She ran a gentle hand over his muzzle and then glanced at Merlin surreptitiously, murmuring, “I can’t remember ever seeing a horse hate someone so much.”

“The feeling is mutual.” Merlin looked away, his jaw clenching and his gaze hardening, and then looked at his companion for a moment. “He brings back memories I’d rather forget. I asked for a different horse to be prepared for that reason.”

“I’m sorry, Your Highness.” One of the stable hands bowed his head in respect and apology, his voice no more than a respectful murmur. “There was no other mount available this morning; two patrols went out earlier and haven’t returned.”

“I’ll survive. But I expect better in future.” Merlin glared at the man sharply, his stare deep and threatening, and watched as the stable hand retreated at once. He watched the others leave with him and then turned to his companion immediately, his countenance softening between one moment and the next as he gestured for the noblewoman to claim the horse she’d gentled. Merlin approached his usual horse and Arthur watched as Llamrei shied away, reluctant to let her trusted rider approach. The man he loved frowned sadly, his gaze roaming over his horse with no small amount of distress and confusion. Merlin ran a hand over her neck and said gently, miserably, “Please don’t act this way; I know I’ve been away, but we were friends once. Surely, you haven’t forgotten!”

Llamrei settled down eventually, but didn’t look the least bit comfortable when Merlin mounted her with so much obvious care and love. Arthur was heartbroken to see the two of them at odds with each other, but it was clear that the horses could detect the enchantments keeping their real master at bay, trapped within his own mind. Hengroen kept tossing his head angrily, heedless of the noblewoman astride the saddle on his back. He directed a hateful glare at Merlin several times and tried to bite him more than once. Anger and hatred rising, Merlin looked like he was fighting the urge to dismount and haul Hengroen away, perhaps to sell him at the nearest market. His companion reached out and settled her hand upon his arm and Arthur wanted to unseat her from the saddle for daring to touch his Merlin.

Only, it wasn’t his Merlin.

The man in the vision no longer believed he was still living, let alone that the two of them shared a destiny; Merlin even seemed to loathe the treasured memories the pair had created together. Sir Tor wouldn’t risk telling this man that he was still alive. The man that had attacked his uncle to give Arthur a chance to escape the citadel wasn’t the man that wanted to sell Hengroen for acting out.

It was a different person altogether.

Arthur wanted to pull away, to leave the vision fade away, but he couldn’t bear to do so. He couldn’t bear to stop gazing at Merlin – even though it wasn’t _his_ Merlin. Anguish rippled through him as Merlin and his companion rode away, urging their mounts to a gallop after vacating the cobblestones at last. He watched as the pair rode cross-country, shouting challenges to each other and laughing, guiding their mounts through jumps as Merlin and his companion went deeper and deeper into the forest. It reminded him so much of the first time he’d ridden a horse that Arthur could feel his heart splitting, tearing down the middle as he watched the enchantment parading around as the man he loved rewrite one of the most sacred moments from their shared past.

Arthur watched as Merlin came to a stop in the same clearing, the one in which he’d first touched him with the intent to seduce and started the sequence of events that led them to their night of passion in Ealdor. He watched him dismount and saunter over to his companion to welcome her into his arms as she dismounted. She beamed down at him as her soft hands settled upon his slender shoulders – more slender than Arthur remembered. It was as he’d suspected: Merlin had lost a large amount of muscle mass during his imprisonment and it would take him a while to build that strength back up.

“Milady,” Merlin said quietly, his expression warm and tender. He set her down on her feet after less than a moment and lingered close as one of his arms remained wrapped around her. His other hand brushed a loose curl from her face and tucked it away, setting it behind her ear. It was obvious that he was flirting, and that he cared for the noblewoman in his arms. She seemed to care about him too – judging from the surprised delight that rippled over her fair features. Arthur wanted to scream with frustration and pain – as often as he’d claimed that he’d be okay, it was still difficult to watch the scene in front of him. He might have been okay, if he could be certain that the flirtations and the tenderness weren’t fabricated. He wasn’t sure whether the scene occurring in front of him was because the King wanted it to happen. He’d have to keep watching, regardless of how much he wanted to look away, in order to determine how much of this was because of the enchantment placed upon Merlin during his imprisonment and how much of this was genuine emotion. “Are we having fun this morning?”

“You know we are.”

The noblewoman shook her head and slipped away, throwing herself down on the grass without a care in the world. She flopped around in an undignified fashion and wriggled to make herself comfortable before settling, smiling, winking as she chuckled. Arthur hardened himself against the anger and pain that flared inside him as Merlin settled down next to her almost immediately, propping himself up on his elbow as he looked at his companion.

Just like he had when he’d settled down beside Arthur.

His pain intensified to the point that it couldn’t be quelled as he observed how Merlin looked at the noblewoman. It was how he’d once looked at him when the pair of them sprawled beside each other in that same spot – minus the heartbreak of knowing that nothing could ever happen between them while his uncle still lived – and Arthur realised then that this couldn’t be a fabrication. The King had never known about the clearing or about the soft touch Merlin had bestowed upon his scarred forearm. Nor about the kiss that might have happened had Arthur been less of a coward burdened with the knowledge that moments of passion with a woman or a practitioner of magic were a crime.

Arthur watched as Merlin touched this strange woman in the exact same spot and continued to watch as the man he loved leaned over her and kissed her when she didn’t withdraw at once like the coward he’d been when he’d been in the same situation. Merlin kissed her slowly, sighing, his expression softening even further as his pale hand came to cradle her throat in a show of familiar tenderness. She kissed him in return and her tender passion was more than apparent. Arthur stumbled away, a broken noise escaping his throat as he toppled the table and chair in his haste. He fled the street and the witch now cackling, unable to bear the knowledge now festering inside him: that the special moment he’d shared with Merlin had been a simple tactic that the Crown Prince of Camelot and Mercia wasn’t afraid to use again and again and again to get what he wanted from his unwitting companion.

That he’d been a notch in his bedpost and nothing more in that moment.

His bleeding heart thundered within the barrel of his chest as Arthur ran through the winding streets of the foreign port and fled back to the ship. He ignored the crewmates that he ran past. He couldn’t bear the thought of talking, not after what he’d witnessed. He ran until he boarded the ship and Captain Morien prevented his momentum from throwing him over the other side of the ship and into the water.

“What happened?” Rough hands seized his shoulders and shook him hard. Captain Morien shook him until Arthur focused upon the elder man at last. “Are those _tears_?! Did someone hurt you?!”

Arthur managed to shake and nod his head at the same time somehow and the force of doing so made him dizzy; his stomach churned and his abdomen contracted in blatant warning. He broke free of those rough hands and stumbled until he curled over the side of the ship. The acrid taste of vomit burned through his throat and out his mouth as his abdomen contracted sharply, his hands scrabbling at the familiar wood. Captain Morien rested a hand between his shoulder blades and remained nearby, acting as a somewhat distant pillar of strength. His hand remained in place until Arthur managed to get his churning stomach under control and disappeared when he shifted in discomfort. Arthur turned around after a few flailing movements and slumped against the wall of the ship as his chest heaved tiredly; vomiting was such a draining experience. Part of him was relieved that it wasn’t something he experienced often.

Captain Morien handed him a wineskin.

It wasn’t long until Arthur had rinsed the acrid taste of vomit from his mouth and sipped the cool water in an attempt to replenish his strength. Vomiting was one of the surest methods of losing strength and he’d have to gain that strength back somehow before the ship set sail for Cornwall in the morning. Captain Morien remained at his side all the while. He waited as the silence between them grew and then said eventually, “What happened out there?”

“I met a witch while wandering the streets.”

“I see.” Captain Morien sighed heavily, his fingers rising to rub at his temple for a moment. “You saw something, but it was something painful and difficult to bear. You aren’t the first to fall into such a trap and won’t be the last.”

“I don’t think it was a trap. She told me it would show me the truth.”

“Truth is relative.” Captain Morien waved a dismissive hand. “I might think someone is ugly, but that won’t hold true for someone else. Describe the vision to me and we’ll talk it through.”

Tentatively, his expression somewhat ashamed from having observed such a private moment and raw emotion leaving his voice unsteady, Arthur began to recount what he’d seen in the depths of that familiar blue light. He brought even the smallest and most inconsequential details into light and Captain Morien listened carefully, his weathered features furrowing a fraction. His captain had been a good listener from the moment the pair had first met on the docklands in Cornwall. Arthur spoke until his voice ceased shaking, until something resembling a sense of calm came over him. It helped that he trusted Captain Morien implicitly; there weren’t a lot of people that would risk drowning in the sea to prevent another person from being thrown overboard in the middle of a storm. Knowing that Captain Morien was terrified of what dwelled beneath the waves and still risked his life inspired twice as much trust.

“We don’t know whether that was real.” Captain Morien spoke slowly, his gruff tones softened with care and understanding, aware that Arthur loved Merlin more than the world around them. That he’d sacrifice his next sunrise in order to ensure the man he loved was safe from harm. Arthur had informed him of what he’d learned about Merlin and his predicament during that first week the crew had spent at sea – when the wind and waves were their friend and not their foe. “We know the witch said the vision would show the truth...but what truth is it showing, Your Majesty,” Captain Morien asked softly, murmuring the formal address carefully, casting a surreptitious glance down the pier to ensure there were no eavesdroppers within range. Neither of them could be too careful now: entering a foreign realm without announcing himself would count as an illegal occupation despite the lack of armed men and could spark a war with Hispania all the same. “It might just be an accurate vision when it comes down to the sequence of events. But that wouldn’t mean his feelings weren’t fabricated or the result of some enchantment. You can’t understand the true thoughts and feelings of another man just from looking at him: the connection between minds and bodies is an intricate network and not all men are true to their appearances.”

“You didn’t see it.” Arthur looked down at his hands and wasn’t sure what to say, except that he was certain the sentiment written upon those familiar features had been real. He was certain that Merlin cared for that noblewoman and that he desired her as he’d once desired him. Merlin might even desire her more than he’d desired Arthur. Caring for and desiring that noblewoman would result in less stress and emotional upheaval than loving Arthur had. Arthur had never been able to offer the man he loved a single thing that mattered when he’d lived in Camelot and served as manservant beneath the Crown Prince of Camelot and Mercia – what weight could fervent hearts carry, Arthur wondered miserably, when land and wealth and martial strength were so vital to the success of a realm. Besotted promises mattered little when realms were at stake. “The vision seemed so real to me and I was one of the people that knew him best.”    

“Merlin challenged the King,” Captain Morien said pointedly, as though he could see the uncertain and fearful thoughts bouncing around in his head. “He did it on multiple occasions. Those aren’t the actions of a man experiencing a passing fancy, and we can’t forget the fact that he attempted to murder someone he’d known and loved for more than two decades because he was presented with the severed head of what appeared to be the man he loved. You must understand that murder isn’t easy, Your Majesty, no matter what the driving factor is. There are few people willing to stain their soul through such vengeance.”

“You must be an expert on vengeful murder then.”

“Actually, I am. Or at least I was once upon a time.” Captain Morien gazed down along the pier as Arthur froze suddenly, shocked to the core. Arthur had been resorting to sarcasm – he hadn’t expected his captain to confirm a remark thrown in jest to break the tension aboard the ship. Perhaps he didn’t know his captain as well as he’d thought. He looked askance at the elder man and wasn’t sure what to think. A chasm of doubt gaped inside him. He opted for waiting, waiting until Captain Morien chose to continue and explain in his own time. “It isn’t a coincidence that I know these streets so well. I lived in exile here for quite a while.”

“I’m finding this hard to believe.”

“Why,” Captain Morien asked gruffly, glancing at him. His gaze glittered with no small amount of amusement despite the subject matter. He cuffed his head – just as he’d done during those long months of rowing and sailing lessons – and Arthur couldn’t quench the surge of indignant fondness the action incurred. “Because I’m an old man or because I just don’t look capable? Or is this because I’ve been idealized in that damned skull?”

“I don’t know. You just never seemed like that kind of man to me.” Arthur shrugged and fell into silence abruptly, his mind whirring as he remembered the first time he’d ever killed someone himself. How he’d thrown up in the bushes moments later. Several moments passed before Arthur managed to ask quietly, “Does remembering what happened inspire remorse?”

“No.” Captain Morien was firm and unhesitant when he answered. He ran a hand through the wisps of his hair and then continued without an ounce of hesitation. It seemed he’d had a long time to come to terms with his actions in the past. “That bastard had it coming and I’d murder him all over again tomorrow. There are some people worth condemning oneself for and that poor girl was one of them. One of the things I do regret is that I couldn’t bear to wait long enough to spare her reputation and future prospects. I didn’t think about the long term – all I thought about was the fear and dread on her face whenever that bastard encroached upon her personal space. All I thought about was what he’d done to her and what he’d do to her again at the next opportunity; it was no secret among the common people that he’d taken advantage of her while she’d been drunk. But no one dared to move against what was happening. I couldn’t bear that. I couldn’t stand around and watch her be married to that bastard.”

“You were the man!” Arthur sat up abruptly, gaping at his captain in confusion and bewilderment as several conversations with his aunt came rushing to the surface in an instant. “You killed Derek! But I thought –”

“I’m sure the late Queen said that I’d been sentenced in front of her.” Captain Morien offered a faint smile and a small laugh escaped on a huff of breath. “You’ll find she never said I was executed. I would have been...but her mother freed me from the dungeon in the middle of the night. She ordered me to flee and never return: a ship and a crew I’d spent so long training waited for me on the pier. None of them even balked at the idea of going into exile with me. Somehow I’d managed to create an all-or-nothing band of misfits without noticing.”

“Captain...”

“One of her personal Knights took the fall for freeing me.” Captain Morien continued as though he hadn’t even heard Arthur addressing him. It was possible: the elder man looked vacant now as he remembered that distant period of time. “I _do_ regret _that_ death.”

“What happened then?”

“We settled down here. We made lives for ourselves.” Captain Morien shrugged and then emerged from the memories that had distracted him for a moment. He looked somewhat helpless as he recounted the time he and his crew spent in exile. “What else could we do? I knew one of the most common languages spoken here and the others weren’t even close to being literate at the time – I was entrusted with their wellbeing when those men chose to exile themselves with me. I was rather fortunate compared to the others: I had a mother who’d received quite an in-depth education while living here and she passed that on to me from the moment I’d started speaking. I was never more grateful for that than I was then.”

“Relocating here was that simple?”

“Don’t be stupid.” Captain Morien shook his head and huffed again. “It was one of the most difficult and exhausting experiences I’d ever lived through. We lived together in groups of four and most of the others went into fishing because those skills are almost universal – though there might be a few cultural differences in some places. Anyway, I had to hold back for a while and educate them instead. Most of the crew can now read and write enough to get by, and I’m so proud of that.”

“You make it sound like teaching them was a pleasure. You liked it that much?”

“Of course I did. Teaching them could be draining and infuriating, certainly, but it was so rewarding when their diligence paid off. It was like riding a large wave and I loved that feeling.” Captain Morien released a gruff chuckle. He ran a hand through the wisps of his hair again and looked askance at Arthur. “So that was what I did here. I offered to teach the common children for an affordable price and countless mothers flocked to send their children to me while the chance was available. Just being able to read and write would have made them more valuable as serving staff – scribes were in almost constant demand at the time. Not to mention notaries and librarians and tutors and scholars. Some of them work for the ruling class right now.”

Arthur scrubbed a tired hand over his face. Truly, he’d never known Captain Morien at all. That was a difficult truth to swallow. He’d been so sure that he’d known his captain well enough – that he’d grown to know him during those long months of rowing and sailing lessons. Obviously, that was a lie he’d told himself until he’d believed it with all his might and now he’d been struck with the truth.

It took a moment or so of contemplation for him to realise the conversation had derailed his fears and doubts about how much he’d mattered to Merlin. Arthur ran a hand over the back of his neck and sighed heavily, hesitating a moment before saying, “Thanks for distracting me. I wasn’t in a good place a few minutes ago.”

“I know that. We all need distractions sometimes.” Captain Morien rested his head against the wall of the ship. His weathered frame deflated around a long sigh. “Our paths are often beset with violent storms and most of them must be faced before we can move on. But some storms are far too dangerous and should be avoided at all costs. Doubt is one of them. It doesn’t matter whether the affection Merlin appears to harbour for that noblewoman are genuine or not: he is enchanted all the same and all his actions must be held under suspicion because of that fact. You know that much. His mind has been clouded in some way, and unwittingly, that noblewoman is taking advantage of him. You must free him first and then tackle the doubts that vision inspired – no peace can be found within otherwise. You’ll never stop doubting until Merlin has a chance to explain his actions.”

“You’re right.”

“I know that too.”

“Funny,” Arthur grumbled almost to himself. He cuffed the captain on the back of his head and earned a small burst of gruff laughter in return. A moment of silence passed before he admitted quietly, “She was quite pretty; no wonder he wanted her.”

“Prettiness is one of those relative truths.” Captain Morien waved another dismissive hand as he spoke. “Personally, I’ve never considered blonds that appealing, but...whatever floats his boat.”

Arthur couldn’t help the amused snort that escaped him upon hearing that particular remark. An alarming appreciation for sea-related remarks seemed prevalent among sailors and those who loved the sea. He tipped his head back against the wall of the ship and sighed before asking, “Where did the others go? I passed them earlier...but didn’t stop to ask. I was a bit distressed at the time.”

“Whoring.”

“You didn’t go with them?”

“I’m married to the sea.”

“I think Beli would disagree with that.”

“He can try,” Captain Morien answered gruffly, though a faint smile coloured his tone. A ragged curse escaped him a moment later when the back of his hand seared abruptly, the result of several hours of exposure to the summer sun occurring in a single instant. He scrambled to plunge his blistering hand into the frigid waters of the sea and announced quickly, “I was jesting!”

“And you were the one to accuse me of issuing fighting words! It seems like half of the best people I’ve ever known practice some form hypocrisy, you know.” Arthur shook his head and looked askance at his captain. His mouth curled around a fond smile. “I could heal that in a heartbeat.”

“I’ll let it heal on its own. It would be best to show I’ve learned a lesson here.”

“That sounds like a good idea.” Grinning broadly, Arthur clapped his captain on the shoulder. Several moments of relative silence passed before a thought struck him. “You returned from exile eventually, Captain. You were pardoned?”

“The late Queen pardoned me not long after her coronation. Your uncle was sent to look for me and request that we return indefinitely, and we set sail for Cornwall as soon as we had our affairs sorted. Your uncle ended up spending several weeks here. Setting foot on foreign soil unannounced seems to run in the family,” Captain Morien answered gruffly, a warm smile colouring his voice. His gaze was sad despite the smile when Arthur focused upon him. “Your uncle embraced me as soon as he saw me and dared to express an absurd notion that I deserved to be a Knight of the Realm for what I did. He wasn’t pleased when I declined such an honour. But he was a good man and I miss him.”

“And he was one of those married-to-the-sea fellows.”

“He was indeed. That was one of the things that made us fast-friends.” Captain Morien beamed for the first time since Arthur had met him. His black gaze watered for a moment and then he rose quickly, clearing his throat and stretching, his spine popping loud enough to make Arthur wince. “I’m hungry; I’m going to head to the tavern. Are you coming?”

“I’m coming,” Arthur agreed at once. He rose to his feet and accompanied his captain. “Thanks for telling me: I appreciate it.”

Captain Morien clapped him on the shoulder and said nothing more.


	71. Chapter Seventy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, folks. 
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think!

Arthur and the crew docked in Cornwall three weeks later to find Gwen and Rhoswen waiting, both of them bundled up for warmth. The sailing season was fading fast and soon the violent winter storms would come. Grinning delightedly, Arthur closed the distance between them and kissed his adoptive sister on the cheek before welcoming his growing niece into his arms eagerly, cradling her against his chest. He devoted himself to pouring an ocean of affection upon Rhoswen – who wriggled and giggled in her warm swaddling all the while. She’d grown so much in the six weeks that he’d been gone. He was certain she’d be walking and talking soon enough. Arthur almost couldn’t believe it. Still grinning, he began the long walk back to the castle after exchanging his farewells with the crew and Gwen fell into step easily, informing of all the reports and decisions he’d been absent for.

Arthur listened to his regent intently, though his countenance remained soft and warm as his niece continued to speak to him with incoherent noises and excited hand gestures. He listened to his regent until something made him stop in his tracks and stare at the men working, darting here and there around the skeleton of a ship. He knew what the ship would be named upon completion in the spring and a surge of emotion rushed through him at the thought. His arms tightened around Rhoswen until she squalled in protest and Gwen reclaimed her immediately, snaring his attention at once as she threw a reproving glance at him.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur muttered instantly, his attention returning to the ship being built where the docklands met the trails leading up to the castle. “I wasn’t expecting to see the ship being built so soon.”

“I know.” Gwen touched his arm in understanding, her expression softening. Arthur knew he wasn’t alone in his grief: his adoptive sister had overseen his duties while he was away, and that meant spending a large amount of time with the Queen of Cornwall until she started delegating, sparing as much of her strength as possible. Gwen would have become her friend and confidante during that time. “I’m sorry; I should have given some warning.”

“I need to return to Dorchester in the morning,” Arthur said suddenly, changing the subject between one heartbeat and the next. He avoided looking at his adoptive sister as he continued walking, his pace quickening, propelling himself past the ship that would soon bear the name Merewald. Gwen hastened to keep up with him. “I’ve spent far too much time away, and Viborg must be worried that I’m not coming back. I’ll explain what happened as soon as I return.”

“You’re certain about leaving,” Gwen asked quietly, her tone inquisitive. She looked askance at him as the pair began the long trek uphill. “You could do so much good here. You don’t have to go back – we both know Viborg is prepared to stand as regent.”

“I do know that and I do intend to do some good here – from the high court. You’ve served the realm wonderfully; I see no reason to return and take duties from those who earned them through hard work and dedication.”

Arthur and Gwen spoke no more on the matter of her regency, turning instead to less political things: Ninianne was at last making progress with her pursuit of archery; Sir Lamorak would depend upon a cane in the future permanently, having been injured grievously, after slipping over the edge of the cliff while he’d been out for his usual afternoon walk. Fortunately, he’d survived the fall somehow and he’d been found before the tide had come rushing in to drown him in the evening. Arthur went to see the man as soon as he heard the news and was surprised to find him chuckling in the infirmary, his daughter curled up beside him and sleeping, his hand tangled in her copper hair as he and Lady Hunith spoke in soft murmurs.

“Your Majesty,” Sir Lamorak greeted warmly, his countenance brightening even further as his wife lunged out of her chair to throw her arms around Arthur. The two men shared a smile as Arthur returned the embrace wholeheartedly, sustaining it for several long moments before stepping away, bestowing a warm kiss upon her brow. Lady Hunith returned to her chair a moment later. “It wasn’t necessary, but I appreciate the visit. You must have so much work to do.”

“Nothing is more important than ensuring the wellbeing of those I care about.”

“I’m extra grateful then.” Sir Lamorak looked down at Ninianne for a moment and gestured for Arthur to take a seat at the foot of the bed. He smiled again. “How was Hispania?”

“It was a nice place to spend a day,” Arthur answered easily, unwilling to let the incident with the witch cloud the rest of the time he’d spent in the foreign port. He made no mention of the vision he’d seen. It would help no one to upset them all. “It was what I needed after what happened. But I’m glad to be home now: I need to return to Dorchester as soon as possible.”

Arthur spent an hour in the infirmary, conversing with his loved ones quietly, smiling as he watched Ninianne sleep and casting brief glances at the other man that occupied one of the beds. Safir was curled up on his side and silent. He didn’t move even when Arthur came near the bed and greeted him tentatively; he made no acknowledgement of his presence at all. It was as though the man within wasn’t even there. Frowning, Arthur gazed down at the silent man in concern and suspected a mind-healer might be needed. He’d leave instructions for Gwen to look into the matter as soon as possible.

His frown deepening, Arthur vacated the infirmary, his mind whirring and his stride long as he headed for his chambers. He stopped a servant along the way, and requested a bath to be prepared. Receiving their nod of respectful obeisance was a relief. He needed to have a long soak after three weeks of sailing, three weeks of working his muscles and sweating. Honestly, Arthur was surprised the others suffered through the ripe stench without offering a complaint. But he supposed that was one of the benefits of having been crowned so recently; few of the people he knew and trusted were willing to undermine his localized sense of authority, not at such a delicate juncture.

But he did smell.

Quite fiercely, he knew.

That wasn’t an exaggeration.

The steaming bath was waiting for him when Arthur entered his chambers and he smiled gratefully, murmuring his gratitude to the serving staff as the women strode past him in single file. His frame still sagged with relief once he was alone and Emrys could attend to him freely, soft kisses raining down over his face while unseen hands divested him of his clothes. Arthur longed for Merlin powerfully, but he tried to harden himself against the ache that shot through his chest at the thought of him and the kiss he’d given to that strange noblewoman in their special clearing, the treasured memories Merlin had besmirched with her presence. He entrusted himself to the warm touch of familiar magic instead. He let himself luxuriate in loving kisses and pampering, letting his desire and need rise until his manhood was hard and aching, desperate to be touched.

His limbs warm and heavy, Arthur let himself be washed and dried with loving care and guided onto his hands and knees on the bed. He let himself be kissed and caressed until he couldn’t bear the tenderness much longer – because all it did was serve as a reminder of what he’d seen in the vision.

He didn’t want that now.

His vision blurred and then Arthur was gasping, begging for his phantom lover to be rougher with him – to use him as he needed to be used in that moment. He let himself be taken hard until he couldn’t remember the reason for the tears trickling down his face and falling to stain the bedclothes spread out beneath him even as he pleaded for even more from his phantom lover. He let bruising fingers grip the broad curves of his hips and torment his stiff and aching nipples. He let himself sink into that familiar floating, drifting sensation as a rough hand moved to fist his hair tightly, pulling his head back and forcing the muscles in his neck to grow taut. His neck strained against the pressure as his lashes fluttered against his cheeks in growing pleasure. His veins started singing. His neglected manhood hung hot and heavy, dripping seed all over the bedclothes beneath him. Arthur knew nothing but the relentless force pushing into him from behind and the hand keeping him pinioned and helpless as his scalp seared from the rough touch. He heard nothing but his own ragged gasps and desperate panting, the thundering of his heart within the broad barrel of his chest.

His climax hit him like a punch to the gut and Arthur would have collapsed immediately, but for the phantom hands holding him up. The magic held him as the floating sensation faded away, slowly, leaving him a quivering mess as something akin to relief flooded through his veins. Soft kisses rained down over the broad expanse of his back and shoulders as the magic lowered him carefully, easing his numb legs out from under him and soothing him until feeling returned. The anguished tears kept coming even after the wild surge of ecstasy, and Arthur didn’t know how to stop them. He was just relieved that he wasn’t sobbing like a helpless boy; the tears were slow and silent as his heartbeat slowed and his breathing calmed. His phantom lover cradled him all the while and Arthur surrendered himself to the tender show of affection until he drifted away, his frame sated and heavy, and his skin flushed and warm.

When Arthur woke in the morning, his face ached from his tears.

Somehow he felt rested all the same.

Arthur broke his fast slowly, the corner of his mouth curling up whenever Emrys ran a loving hand between his shoulder blades or through the tousled locks of his hair. His longing for Merlin returned immediately, but it didn’t resurrect the same anguish from the previous day, and he was so grateful for that. It seemed the rough and vigorous round of lovemaking had helped him purge the distress and despair that had festered beneath the surface of his mind during the last three weeks of sailing, which hadn’t been the time or the place to have private moments of passion with his phantom lover. His backside and lower spine ached from the hard pounding he’d received whenever he shifted in his chair. His lashes fluttered against his cheeks in remembered pleasure whenever that deep ache flared through him. His phantom lover trailed soft kisses along the arch of his neck and across the curve of his jaw. Arthur couldn’t help turning, his lips parting easily, his hand rising to clutch dark hair that wasn’t there before falling in realisation. Emrys kissed him sweetly, deep and lingering, ensuring Arthur knew how loved he was despite the continued absence of his Merlin.

Taking a moment or so to admire and appreciate the bruising on his body, Arthur dressed in fresh clothes sometime later and combed his hair before taking care of a few essential matters regarding the realm. He then searched for a mage with enough power to teleport him to Dorchester.

Arthur arrived while Viborg was in the middle of training, the Cornish mage that had escorted him buckling from the strain of teleporting him twice in a row. He seized the weakened mage around the middle and supported him instead of leaving him hit the ground like a sack of flour. That the mage happened to make an adequate shield against the ferocious woman now whirling around to look at him was an added bonus and not one he’d admit to aloud.

Viborg scowled immediately, relief and anger waging war upon her familiar features as she tossed her braid over her shoulder. Her hand tightened around her hammer for a moment and then relaxed as she grunted a greeting, bowing her head in a show of respect as the other mages did the same. Sweat soaked her tunic in several places and her skin glowed from the exertion. Viborg gestured for one of the mages to relieve Arthur of his accidental shield and then strode away, her shoulders tense and screaming her victorious anger loud and clear. She instructed another mage to oversee the rest of training, and Arthur sighed heavily, knowing he needed to follow her before her anger could explode from her in a surge of magic and vicious words.

“Viborg,” Arthur began quietly, wanting to keep their argument as private as possible despite being out on the grounds even now. His friend was upset and that was her right as another human being, but he couldn’t let the others see her undermining his authority, regardless of the fact that she acted as regent in his absence from the current capital of his united realms. “I’m sorry; I should have sent word that I needed to take care of something. I didn’t think. I just acted. You’re entitled to be angry, but I wasn’t abandoning the realm when I failed to come back as soon as I was crowned in Cornwall. I wasn’t abandoning the people that matter to me either.”

Viborg snorted in disdain at once and kept walking, her stride lengthening until the pair of them disappeared from open view. She whirled around then and thumped him once in the chest with a curled fist before snarling, “I thought something happened! You weren’t strapped to that damned beast when leaving and then never came back! You never even sent word to us! I came looking after a week of hearing nothing, but Her Grace was so apologetic while informing me about some damned sailing trip to Hispania. You have no idea what that feels like. You ran at the nearest opportunity, Your Majesty, but aren’t even willing to admit that much after humiliating me and the rest of the court in public. You could at least be honest about it!”

“I didn’t run – not from here and not from Cornwall. I didn’t run from the duties I owe to the lands I govern. I’m not a damned coward!” His own anger surging in reply, Arthur tried to stamp down on the immediate sting that her venomous words inflicted upon his heart. He did his best to remember that she had a fundamental right to be upset even when she was so wrong about him and his motives. “One of the crewmen had to have his leg amputated after an accident and someone needed to fill the position. I was the obvious choice because the captain knew and trusted me. I served a civic duty, Viborg, and nothing more than that.”

Viborg snorted in disdain all over again and shook her head adamantly, her shoulders hunching as she stormed away, throwing a glare burning with molten magic over her shoulder when Arthur tried to stop her. Her magic crackled around her in a threatening fashion and Arthur realised he had to let her leave now or she’d strike him down with a blast of powerful magic without meaning to. Viborg needed to cool down in her own time and his presence would just serve to aggravate her further. She’d come to him when she was ready, and not a moment sooner.

His weariness renewed and his face lined with no small amount of misery, Arthur watched his friend go and then retreated to his chambers before someone else could distract him with complaints or admonishments. He hoped she’d come around to his perspective: he didn’t want a rift to develop between himself and one of his mages because of a lack of forethought and consideration. Arthur managed to smile wryly, remembering the arguments he and Merlin once had – about his recklessness and their difficulties with communication at the most inopportune moments. He supposed he still had to work on that even now. Certainly, he’d been reckless when he’d volunteered to fill the position aboard the ship...but that hadn’t come from a place of cowardice as Viborg had suggested.

Arthur shook his head and sighed as he settled at his writing desk. He retrieved his map from the drawer and studied the realms sprawling across Albion. He’d used the magic that jumped at his beck and call to add small illustrations of golden dragons to represent the lands he’d united under his banner through conquest or treaties: Cornwall had been the beginning, and soon Wessex and Nemeth had followed suit. Anglia and Tír-Mór – not to mention Kent and Amata – had joined the ranks soon after.

Seven whole realms.

Five more realms united under his banner and he would have the united realms of Camelot and Mercia surrounded completely, and at his mercy, Arthur knew. But gaining complete control or forging an alliance with those realms would be more difficult to manage than the seven realms he’d united thus far.

But he supposed that wasn’t an accurate truth – not as accurate as he’d like it to be at least. Realistically, he might have an easier time forging an alliance with Gawant compared to the four other realms waiting to be united under his banner – it was open knowledge that the King of Gawant had been a good friend of Uther Pendragon and the man was bound to feel nostalgic or obligated in some way, considering he’d be presented with the son of someone he’d viewed as a close friend. But that knowledge made Arthur reluctant to approach the elder monarch all the same. Though it wasn’t a complete certainty, there was a chance that the realm of Gawant harboured the same hateful and intolerant view of magic that once drenched Camelot in blood and decimated her population. Arthur didn’t want to forge alliances with men that would treat his people like criminals over something so natural and pure.

Dyfed was another matter entirely, Arthur knew. Just the mere idea of dealing with the King of Dyfed made him shudder with distaste and no small amount of fear. It made his skin crawl. That was the vile man who’d wanted to purchase his services – as though he were a prostitute and open for business on demand. Being near him would mean opening himself up to unwanted and nauseating flirtations now that he wasn’t a manservant powerless against the sexual advances of a nobleman. He’d be given a choice to refuse such advances now because of his rank as King, one with more status and influence than the King of Dyfed would have. That was one of the perks of having seven realms united under his banner.

Unfortunately, the King of Dyfed also knew who Arthur was and had close ties with Camelot and Mercia. That was the difficult part. How would he convince the King of Dyfed to keep his existence secret without compromising his own personal values? Arthur doubted the man would do so voluntarily, not unless he promised him something he’d want in return. His frame tensed in distaste at the thought. It was easy, so easy, to imagine the vile man smirking lasciviously, encroaching on his personal space without an ounce of respect for propriety, a hand on his arm and lips at his ear as he made requests. He could imagine his own stomach turning even as he did his best to avoid an outright confrontation. Arthur couldn’t afford to send him running to that bastard reigning over Camelot and Mercia. He’d have to tread lightly, and so carefully, keeping the King of Dyfed balanced on the edge of a blade until Arthur could make his move and swipe the realm out from beneath his feet.

The Queen of Elmet was an elusive creature in comparison to that vile man. Arthur had never seen her in Camelot. She’d often sent her nobles to treat with the King of Camelot and Mercia and the man had shown great understanding, given that the Perilous Lands separated Elmet from Camelot. No monarch would be expected to cross such a harsh landscape for the sake of a feast and some small talk.

The Elmetians were hardy, though their personal brand of hardiness came from different trials to those the Cornish people faced in the pursuit of their livelihoods. The Elmetians often had to brave the harsh heat of the sun overhead and the threat of sandstorms in order to trade with realms south of the Perilous Lands. Not to mention having to defend themselves against the smaller, meaner, venomous cousins to the dragons that Merlin loved and that Arthur had come to respect so much. It wasn’t a surprise that he’d heard countless tales of caravans being assaulted repeatedly, their winged assailants circling overhead almost constantly, swooping down to terrorize and wear down the travelling merchants until there was nothing but a weakened meal remaining.

To be a wyvern was to be a bully, Arthur knew.

Arthur hated bullies. He’d hated them since he was a small boy, ever since his first encounter with Jeffrey, and his cruel gang of thugs. His hatred for bullies had intensified as he’d served as a manservant beneath the Crown Prince of Camelot and Mercia. Honestly, he doubted he’d ever be able to walk those familiar corridors without remembering the cold terror that used to turn his veins to ice when the King would turn the corner in front of him and the weight of cruel hands around his throat. Not to mention the sharp crunch of bone snapping underfoot. He doubted he’d ever be able to walk those corridors without waiting for a monster to slam him up against the nearest flat surface and squeeze the breath from his lungs until spots bloomed in his vision and his knees buckled beneath him.

Shaking his head to dislodge the sudden memory, Arthur focused on the map in front of him all over again and continued contemplating, his fingers interlocked and his brow furrowed with concentration. He wasn’t certain how long he sat contemplating, but his back was stiff and aching when a sharp knock on the door disrupted him. His hand jerked to the side and knocked one of the various pots of ink that decorated his writing desk. He cursed up a storm and barked his consent for the visitor to enter while scrabbling to save the map and a few of his other papers from the ink spreading across the wood.

No longer scowling, Viborg strode through the doorway, dressed in fresh clothes and her hair braided all over again. It swung behind her as she marched toward him and sat opposite him without even asking for leave. She looked like a frozen statue as she watched him foundering, one hand clutching half a dozen sheets of parchment and the other searching for a cloth before he remembered the warm miasma of magic waiting to do his bidding. That was when he started feeling like an idiot. His face flushing, Arthur avoided looking at the experienced mage as the ink spreading across his writing desk vanished without a trace.

“You wanted something,” Arthur asked quietly, his tone even despite his embarrassment. He set the map back down and began sorting through his papers as he waited for her reply, but he raised his head when Viborg didn’t answer. She was gazing at him in a manner that bordered affection now and that surprised him enough for him to set his papers aside at once. Arthur gazed at his trusted mage evenly, his stomach knotting and his heart in his throat. “Is this about what happened earlier? Whatever needs to be said...I’m willing to listen even though we disagree. Your opinion is valued here.”

“I thought something happened.” Viborg ceased looking at him as she repeated the words she’d said to him earlier and chose instead to stare down at the writing desk separating them from each other. Her hands curled into fists on her lap. Her knuckles whitened. She released a breath that sounded angry, and it trembled free of her tall frame. “I thought I’d lost someone again and I hated that feeling. It brought back more memories than I want to remember and I don’t want to feel like that again.”

“I won’t make promises that I can’t keep.”

“I know that.” Her magic crackled around her for an instant before it simmered back down. Viborg looked at him then and her gaze was twice as soft as he’d ever witnessed before. His heart softened in appreciation as she said quietly, forcefully, her strong jaw clenching, “I’m not asking for impossible promises to be made. Just give me some damned warning the next time. Have a note sent or something. I’ll handle it better then.”

“I’ll try; I can’t promise that I’ll remember each time I need to do something drastic or unexpected.” Arthur scrubbed a tired hand over his face and then looked at his trusted mage wearily; the frequent tension in her frame served as a constant reminder that Viborg was as damaged as he was. Perhaps even more damaged than him. He wanted to take her hand in his and squeeze to let her know she wasn’t alone. “But I’ll do the best I can to remember to send a note whenever possible.”

“I ask for nothing more than that.” Viborg bowed her head respectfully, the tension in her frame easing at once. Her gaze lost the softness it bore a moment ago. She reached into the inner pocket of her leather coat and withdrew several folded sheets of parchment inscribed with his name. “These reports were delivered not long before I arrived.”

Viborg handed them to him and Arthur recognised the penmanship instantly; these reports were from the mages he’d sent to watch the roads into Camelot. He hadn’t heard from them in months and the last few reports had given him knowledge of nothing noteworthy; travelling merchants had passed through on occasion and a few mercenaries now and then. But that was nothing new. His brow furrowing, Arthur broke the seal on the first report and began to read through the contents. His heart stopped beating as he read the words inscribed in jerky, rushed handwriting: _Camelot and Mercia seek an alliance with Gawant through marriage_. His hands clenched automatically, crumpling the parchment as memories of the vision he’d seen flickered across the surface of his mind – memories of Merlin flirting with that strange noblewoman and kissing her as though it was the sweetest pleasure in the world. His ears started ringing as he stared down at the one sentence without seeing the others that came before and after.

His throat constricted.

His lungs seized in his chest.

He rose from his chair abruptly, spots blooming across his vision.

That was the last thing he remembered before blinking up at his friend as Viborg crouched over him in blatant concern. Her palm was cool against his forehead as she checked his temperature. She seemed relieved to see him awake and Arthur couldn’t muster the drive to bat her hands away, too drained to be embarrassed that he’d collapsed.

Arthur spent several moments sprawling on the floor and taking stock of what must have happened within that blank space in his memory, where however much time had passed without him. He’d collapsed – that much was more than obvious. He’d toppled his chair in the process – and he knew that because it was on the floor beside him. His chest hurt with each breath he drew and he couldn’t tell whether the cause was bruising or breakage at the moment. He’d have to get that checked out later. What worried him was the warm throbbing on the side of his head. Head injuries were serious. His shaking hand reached for the spot and Viborg snared his wrist gently, murmuring, “Rest easy; I’ve healed the bulk of the swelling. You should be fine.”

“Okay,” Arthur muttered in reply, blinking up at his most trusted mage again. He needed to get up from the floor as soon as possible: he didn’t like having that concerned stare directed at him for too long. It made him feel like a weakling. “I appreciate that.”

Finally, Arthur managed to bat her hand away, and he sat up with great care. He didn’t collapse again from the pain and that was a relief. Still...getting to his feet wasn’t easy, but he was too proud to ask Viborg for a hand. She was too wise to offer one. Arthur pressed a hand against his chest and just focused on keeping his breathing even as his friend reached for the chair he’d toppled during his collapse and righted it.

“You can talk to me...about whatever news came in those reports.” Viborg looked at him as she rested a hand on his arm after a moment of hesitation. Discomfort and concern waged war on her face. She looked down at the crumpled parchment still on the floor between them and her expression grew troubled before she looked at him again. “I’ve never seen someone go down so fast before. Was it about Merlin?”

“He is betrothed to someone else.” Arthur looked down at the crumpled parchment and his vision began blurring, his breath stuttering out of him in a painful fashion. Viborg was guiding him into his chair before he could even absorb the fact that his knees had buckled beneath him. “I waited too long.”

“It won’t be too long unless he tied the knot with them already, Arthur.” Viborg gripped his shoulder in an offer of strength and compassion as she opted not to use the formal address for the first time. Her gaze blazed with determination and no small amount of encouragement. “You still have time. From what I’ve heard of him...Merlin isn’t the kind to rush into marriage. Once he knows his true love is still living and breathing, the wedding will be stopped at once. You can’t give up on him now.”

“But I don’t know how long Merlin was betrothed to her!” The words exploded out of him despite her efforts to calm him down and inflame his determination. His voice sounded shrill even to his own ears. His heart thumped in his chest as he couldn’t help imagining Merlin waiting before his accursed uncle as Princess Elena of Gawant was escorted down the aisle with all the pomp that he’d never imagined when it came to his own wedding. It had become manageable when he thought Merlin was just courting the woman. That marriage was on the table so soon after he’d found out was unbearable. His chest heaved as his breaths came too hard and too rapidly, sending bursts of vibrant pain through him. “This could be old news! The wedding could be next week for all I know!”

“Your spies would have mentioned a date. We all know how much the Crown Prince of Camelot and Mercia means to our King,” Viborg replied pointedly, her grip on his shoulder tightening in increments. She repeated the words she’d said a moment ago and then began a new line of conversation altogether. “You have time to prevent this. What else did the report mention?”

“I...I can’t remember.”

“Then we’ll go through that report and the others together.” Viborg relinquished his shoulder and crouched to retrieve the crumpled report before summoning her chair and settling down beside him instead of opposite him. “Perhaps things will make more sense once we do.”

“Okay,” Arthur answered shakily, doing his best to calm his breathing. Panicking wouldn’t help him and it wouldn’t help Merlin escape from his uncle. His shoulders squared with renewed determination. “Okay, we’ll do that. Together.”  


	72. Chapter Seventy-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being so patient. Apologies for the delay; I've started going to the gym and working, and college has started up again.
> 
> Largely, this is a discussion chapter.
> 
> I know some people are getting frustrated with the lack of Merlin. But I promise he'll be returning quite soon! Not long more to wait!
> 
> Anyway, feel free to let me know what you think of this chapter! I look forward to hearing peoples' thoughts!

Reading through the rest of the reports from the spies he’d placed around his beloved homeland made one thing so much more than clear: an unknown individual of high status and influence was planning something nefarious in Camelot. But he hadn’t even the faintest idea who might be behind it or even when that plan would come to fruition. Arthur knew there were small groups of men and women relocating to Camelot regularly, but almost randomly, settling down in the town and making applications to join the guards and the ranks of mages – the numbers of which had suffered immense losses when Arthur and the others had fled from Camelot and the subsequent wrath of the King.

The idea that those ranks were now swelling was absurd.

Too easily, Arthur could remember reports of the struggle to flood the ranks with new blood and now the ranks were growing, swelling with the various men and women that arrived in Camelot over the last three months or so. But each small group of four and five came from a direction different to the group that came before them.

The dispersal was too deliberate to be random.

Someone _had_ to be planning something.

His skin itched with that awareness as Arthur settled into bed that night and gazed up at the distant ceiling, his heart thumping within the barrel of his chest and his throat threatening to constrict his breathing.

His accursed anxieties were stirring all over again.

Someone was in the middle of executing a plan he hadn’t dared to start when he’d started recovering from the trauma inflicted upon him. His plan had been to surround Camelot and Mercia and cut them off from whatever aid might have once been offered in order to choke the united realms until that cruel bastard had no choice but to fall to his knees before him and plead for mercy, but someone else was going straight for the heart of the united realms. Someone else was infiltrating the citadel slowly, gradually, placing their forces in the perfect position to execute a hostile takeover once the person in charge gave the signal. Arthur hadn’t dared to do something so bold when he’d been crowned King and now someone else would have the dark satisfaction of seeing that cruel bastard on his knees. Someone would have the chance to drive a blade through the man he loved and Arthur couldn’t let that happen.

He _wouldn’t_ let that happen.

Arthur ran a shaking hand over his sternum as an ache flared within the barrel of his chest at the thought of Merlin sprawling on the floor as some assailant stood over his pale corpse. Magic crackled around him in response to his turbulent emotion and threatened to ignite the bedclothes. Arthur turned over onto his side and stared at the large mirror that remained the one thing connecting him to Sir Tor and his homeland. It also connected him to Merlin indirectly, and Arthur was certain he’d be hovering around the mirror for weeks to come as he waited for the faintest sign that the hostile takeover was about to occur.

As soon as he’d realised what was happening, he’d alerted his dearest friend to the imminent danger and had instructed him to make plans for an escape during the chaos that would ensue – for his family, Cabal and Gaius.

He didn’t bother instructing Sir Tor to make plans for himself.

There was no point in doing so: Sir Tor wouldn’t leave the citadel or the surrounding area until Merlin was safe from harm and Arthur couldn’t blame him for that stubborn determination. He and Sir Tor had worked too hard to abandon Merlin when he needed them most.

Arthur knew the imminent takeover would provide the briefest opportunity, one that might become a suicide mission upon the flip of a coin. But he would never be able to rest at ease unless he took the chance being presented to him now.

Perhaps this was the moment he’d been waiting for all along, what he’d beseeched the gods to grant him during those long and difficult months he’d spent recovering from his trauma. Perhaps his countless pleas had been heard and he’d never even known it. Perhaps this was how the gods intended to respond to the hours he’d spent kneeling before their statues. Arthur knew that Aeron was the custodian of battle and slaughter; his whispers often urged or quelled the thoughts and actions of susceptible men and women across the globe. Perhaps it was his persuasive whispers that encouraged the conception of this plot to infiltrate Camelot and rip the realm out from beneath the nose of that bastard of a King.

He didn’t know for certain and he didn’t care.

All that mattered to him was the fact that the cruel bastard would be so focused upon the men and women turning on him that Arthur would be able to slip into the citadel unnoticed and abscond with the man he loved once and for all. But he’d have to be as quick as possible. He’d have to be in and out of the citadel before someone at the heart of the melee noticed the absence of the Crown Prince from the fray, and came looking, demanding to know what kept him from fighting, from fending off the forces attempting to claim Camelot for their own as their people sacrificed their lives in its defence. He’d have to be in and out before someone grew suspicious.

The thought of being back in that castle terrified him. But something else terrified him even more: the thought that one misstep could bring the delicate situation crashing around his ears before Arthur and Merlin could ever hope to have a future together.

Arthur couldn’t succumb to those fears. He had to remain as strong as possible. He had to keep the faith within his chest burning bright or he’d never get through the challenge ahead of him. Swallowing thickly, Arthur pressed his face deeper into the pillow beneath his head and tried to relax long enough to fall asleep. He needed to be as rested as possible whenever the time came to infiltrate the citadel once pandemonium broke out in the corridors and he couldn’t afford to have sleepless nights. He couldn’t afford to go on more quests and risk missing the chance to rescue Merlin at last. His pulse jumped at the idea of getting to see Merlin in person – the idea of being within a few feet of the man he loved for the first time in a long time.

He wanted to hold him and never let go.

He wanted to run his hands and lips over that trimmed beard and discover how it felt against his sensitive skin. He wanted to run his fingers through the silver strands creeping into the raven hair he adored so much. He wanted to see how loss of muscle mass would affect their lovemaking, once he and Merlin managed to reach a point where lovemaking was possible again.

Arthur doubted it would happen that soon.

He and Merlin would have to reacquaint themselves with each other after so much time apart. Undoubtedly, Merlin would need to visit a healer and purge as much of the trauma he’d experienced from his mind as possible.

An hour passed before Arthur realised that sleep wasn’t an option.

Grumbling about his anxiety, he climbed out of bed and dragged one of the soft sheets with him. He draped it around his naked frame as he headed over to the mirror connecting him to his homeland and to his dearest friend. It took less than a moment to open the connection on his side of the enchantment after he settled down on the floor in front of the mirror and then he waited patiently, hoping Sir Tor wouldn’t take too long to open the connection on his end.

A warm wave of relief flooded through him when Sir Tor manifested within the glass at last. Sir Tor was dressed for bed and looked so soft and rumpled. He looked like a walking invitation to embrace and Arthur would have accepted the invitation immediately, if he could close the distance between them faster. He wouldn’t have minded slipping beneath the blankets with his dearest friend and letting himself be held until he fell asleep within a warm cocoon of affection and comfort. Just seeing Sir Tor looking so warm and inviting brought memories of the night Arthur had spent sleeping beside him rushing back to the surface of his mind and he was reminded all over again of how close the two of them came to being lovers.

It reminded him of how that cruel bastard reigning over Camelot and Mercia had been the main obstacle standing between them when Sir Tor kissed him after the incident at the banquet. That he’d doomed two relationships before Arthur could pursue even one of them. It reminded him of the kisses he’d stolen and those strong arms wrapped around him.

But the reminder was bittersweet.

It took Sir Tor a moment or so to spot him sitting on the floor and then the Knight smiled miserably, murmuring, “You’re not alone. I couldn’t sleep either. Fetch some pillows and blankets – I have an idea.”

That was how Arthur found himself swaddled in a cocoon of warm blankets on the floor a few minutes later. His small mound of pillows kept his head raised off the floor as he gazed into the glass as Sir Tor mirrored him on the other side of the connection. He couldn’t help reaching out and grazing the base of the mirror with his fingertips...as though he might be able to connect with that familiar warmth instead of feeling cold glass pressing against his skin and reminding him that he was still so far from those dearest to him. It comforted him somewhat when Sir Tor followed suit less than a moment later and the pair shared another sad smile.

“I miss the tent.”

“I do too.” Sir Tor gazed at him for a long moment before breaking the silence that fell between them again. His expression grew thoughtful and almost solemn as he gazed at Arthur through the glass connecting them. “You’re what I miss the most about the tent though. I miss being able to feel the heat between us when we rested beside each other like this. You’ve no idea how much I miss that.”

“Actually, I think I might have some idea.” Arthur couldn’t help smiling, the expression far softer and much warmer than before. Just speaking to Sir Tor helped him feel more at ease than he had while he’d been curled up in bed and thinking about the challenges ahead. He drew his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment before admitting softly, and almost hesitantly, “I miss having those arms wrapped around me.”

Smiling slightly, Sir Tor began caressing the glass connecting them to each other and Arthur couldn’t prevent the faint shiver that rippled through him as he imagined those familiar calluses grazing his palm and then his sensitive wrist. He remembered how those calluses had felt against his face as his dear friend kissed him in the tent after the magic had given its blessing, allowing them to reacquaint themselves with the taste of each other and helping Sir Tor come to terms with the revelation that Arthur had been alive all along.

“Would Merlin have given his blessing,” Arthur asked quietly, suddenly, emboldened with the strength of that treasured memory, “if he’d been in the tent with us? Honestly, I think he would have. Merlin used to look so pleased whenever we began flirting, or at least what passed for flirting when I first started working in the castle. I threw a towel at him once after he started grinning, having watched the pair of us talking and dancing around each other while he was sprawled on the ground after a hard bout of sparring.”

“I remember those moments.”

“Oh?”

“Vividly,” Sir Tor answered with a bright smile. His features softened behind his scars after a moment as his tone grew nostalgic. “Your hair often glowed in the sunshine while Merlin and I trained together and I was convinced I’d go blind from looking too long, but I’d still take whatever chances I could to interact with that quiet man that tried so hard to be invisible despite how beautiful he looked. Just having that chance made keeping calm difficult. That was when this was still healing,” Sir Tor continued softly, his familiar fingertips grazing over the glass not too far from the jagged scarring on his forearm. His warm gaze flicked upwards after a brief moment and sparkled when Arthur flushed upon hearing those remarks. He still wasn’t capable of hearing such earnest compliments without flushing in embarrassment – no matter how hard he tried not to. Arthur moistened his lips and looked away, remembering the hammer in his chest and the flip in his stomach whenever Sir Tor came to speak to him. A moment or so passed before he could look at his dear friend again as the man went on to say, “I’d like to think he’d have given his blessing...but I’m not certain about that. Merlin and I never discussed the notion of having an understanding between the three of us. I think he was afraid of dangling the prospect of a relationship in front of me like a treat or something, considering the reason we parted in the end.”

“I could believe that.” Arthur sighed wearily, aware that Merlin could be too good for his own good sometimes. Or at least he used to be. He wasn’t certain what he’d be like now after several months of captivity, not to mention the gross violation of his mind through some foul enchantment. He then frowned in contemplation as a faint recollection flickered across his mind. “You said the relationship ended because he didn’t want to marry, but Merlin once told me you weren’t in love with him.”

“I let him believe that sometime after we’d stopped courting, after we’d stopped bedding each other.” Sir Tor sighed and his breath misted the glass separating them. He watched it recede as he continued speaking. “It was easier to let him believe I’d moved on than let him think our casual intimacies were hurting me in some fashion. Merlin often touched me without even thinking, and I never wanted him to think that doing so hurt me because it didn’t hurt me in the slightest. I found it comforting, actually, and I didn’t want it to stop. Even though we weren’t courting, or lovemaking, being touched like that so often meant I still _mattered_ to him. It meant that I was important. You know?”

“I think I do know.” Arthur swallowed thickly, aware of the sharp stare being directed at him now. Sir Tor was a clever man and that mind of his was whirring already, but Arthur didn’t mind being under such close scrutiny, though his heart formed a lump in his throat even so. He looked down at the fingertips that were so close to his skin and still so far away, and experienced a warm rush of feeling that encouraged him to continue. “Even though _we_ aren’t courting, or lovemaking, being able to touch each other whenever we can and whenever we want means so much to me. It comforts me. You were the first person I thought of when I couldn’t sleep. Surely, that means something, right?”

Sir Tor said nothing, but pressed his forehead against the glass connecting them despite the distance between the realms. Arthur followed suit at once. He almost gasped at the cold touch before sighing, a warm smile blooming, his frame relaxing even further as Sir Tor began humming under his breath. The soft sound was soothing, and comforting, and Arthur soon found himself growing drowsy, but he forced himself to snap out of sleepiness long enough to say, “You never told me about the Princess of Gawant.”

Seeming both surprised and wary, Sir Tor ceased humming and focused upon him in an instant. He grew pale behind his scarring, and Arthur almost apologised for disturbing the peace that had developed between them.

“You know about that?”

“I know she and Merlin started courting at some point and that marriage is now on the table. You _know_ I have a few people watching over Camelot and their reports brought word of a potential alliance through the union of Merlin and Princess Elena.” Arthur avoided looking at his dear friend for a long moment as he muttered the words that made his stomach twist with discomfort. When he did manage to look at Sir Tor, it was to see a mixed expression of guilt and grief on those scarred features he’d come to cherish so much. Arthur steeled himself against the ache flaring within his chest and announced quietly, “I also know he kissed her. Merlin must have kissed her several times at this point.”

“Arthur...”

“Just tell me why, Tor.”

“I never mentioned it because the man kissing Her Highness isn’t Merlin – at least not the Merlin that he should be. The man I knew would never do that – no matter how long it was since he’d lost the love of his life. He would never start courting just to form an alliance with another realm. It wouldn’t matter how much pressure his uncle put on him to marry; a man with his kind of courage wouldn’t back down. Not on something so fundamental to whom he is as a person.” Sir Tor spoke quietly, but firmly, his confidence in his words unwavering. He looked like he wanted to reach through the glass separating them and shake him until Arthur understood what he claimed. Despite witnessing such obvious certainty, Arthur was hesitant to discount the faint chance that some of the emotions he’d witnessed in that vision were genuine. His doubts had resurfaced in the hours since he’d read those reports with Viborg. “The man that came out of those chambers and took his place beside the King wasn’t the man I love. He wasn’t the man either of us loves.”

“You’re sure about that?” Arthur gazed at him uncertainly, wanting to believe his dear friend and not quite able to. His stomach tied itself into several familiar knots of distress. “How can we tell what is genuine and what isn’t? How can we tell where Merlin ends and the enchantment begins?”

“I’m as sure about this as I’ve been about almost nothing else!” His anger and frustration growing, Sir Tor began to look wild as he continued to lie opposite him. His hand gripped the frame of the mirror and the muscles in his arm flexed. It took noticeable effort to keep quiet as he continued. “Merlin hit one of the servants for even mentioning his former manservant last week. This morning, he tried to kick Cabal when he started barking and snarling at the sight of him while I was taking him out for a walk. Merlin would never do that! There is something wrong with him on a profound level – none of his behaviour has been genuine. There isn’t a single action that I don’t question daily, not after seeing him stand alongside the man that stole his magic and murdered what looked like the man that Merlin loved as though nothing had happened at all. The Merlin _I_ knew resented the ground on which the King walked before the severed head was revealed and _this_ man acts as though the sun shines out of his orifices. You need to trust me on this!”

“But –”

“No more buts. No more what ifs. Your mind is using the situation at hand to give ground to an old insecurity,” Sir Tor said quietly, his features hard and determined despite the gentle concern brewing in his gaze. He seemed to force himself to relax as he spoke and Arthur wasn’t sure how to feel as Sir Tor continued to gaze at him in that tender way, his gaze knowing and somehow free of judgement. His gut twisted. His heart thumped within his chest. Arthur looked away, but he couldn’t escape the words that followed. Each one of them hit him like a slap and he couldn’t help flinching. “You’re afraid of not being good enough for him. You’re afraid of not being worthy, and your mind is jumping on the chance to prove those fears correct. But those fears are wrong, Arthur. You experienced so much suffering, so much cruelty, as a boy, and that sort of scarring doesn’t fade with the passage of months. It will take a long time to overcome all of that.”

“You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right.”

“Shut up.” Arthur huffed in irritation and then couldn’t help smiling, grateful that the man in front of him was still in his life despite the hardships brewing. He needed someone to remind him when his head was being stupid and insecure. That person used to be Merlin when Arthur dwelled in Camelot and now that position fell to whoever cared about him most at a given moment. But his worries and doubts didn’t remain quelled for long, and soon bubbled to the forefront of his mind all over again. His voice grew strained as the rising fears ran rampant. “Tor...what do we do if we can’t get our Merlin back?”

“If we can’t find some way, then we must do what we must.” Sir Tor looked pained at the prospect and Arthur couldn’t blame him in the least. Just the merest notion of what was being suggested now threatened to tear his heart in two. His heart carried out that threat when Sir Tor went on to say, “Merlin wouldn’t want to keep living like this – a puppet to the whims of someone else. He’d want us to free him – even if freeing him meant sending him to Avalon.”

“But I can’t do that!”

“Then I’ll shoulder that burden for all three of us.” Sir Tor pressed his hand against the glass connecting them and Arthur did the same on his end of the connection. It felt as though an oath had been made between the pair of them. Swallowing thickly, Arthur stared at his dearest friend and hoped that horrible outcome would never come to pass. “I would do it to free him.”

“I know. You’re a far stronger man than I am. I wish I was there.” The soft words escaped upon the faintest tremble that Arthur would deny, if he’d ever been asked about it. But just the thought of having to kill the man he loved in order to free him from the enchantment violating his mind left a shake in his broad frame and a sour twist in his stomach. Merlin had been through so much hardship already; he deserved to live a long and peaceful life in a calm and prosperous realm. The thought of Merlin being denied that future was unbearable. Arthur couldn’t stomach it. He needed the kind of comfort that so few people in his life could provide him – Sir Tor was one and Merlin was the other. “You look so warm and welcoming, and I need that right now.”

“I’m sure.” Sir Tor smiled faintly, the ghost of what had been sworn between them a moment ago still on his face. It lived in the shadows of his gaze and behind the scars that marred his handsome features. But his faint smile was comprised of nothing but warmth and affection all the same. “I’m not alone in looking cosy, you know. You make me want to slide beneath those covers and cuddle.”

Arthur almost choked on a soft laugh and said quickly, “I don’t think that would be such a good idea right now. I’m a bit underdressed.”

“All the more reason to enjoy,” Sir Tor replied immediately, winking, his smile morphing into a teasing smirk that made his toes curl and helped him put the dire discussion of a few moments ago far behind him.

His abdomen tightening, Arthur looked askance immediately, remembering the night his drunken friend had surged out of the shadows within his tent and tried to have his way, lips eager and hands clumsy, but so loving. He remembered the burst of pleasure he’d experienced before he’d caught that questing hand moving towards his groin. He wondered what it would be like to have Merlin give his blessing, and slip into bed with Sir Tor whenever the urge to make love struck them. He wondered what it would be like to lie between the two men he loved most. He wondered whether it was possible to have both men inside him at the same time and then drew his lip between his teeth at the thought of being so debauched. His face heating, Arthur glanced at Sir Tor and hoped the thoughts he’d just had weren’t written all over his face. He watched the teasing smirk develop into smugness and knew his hopes were for nothing.

“I must say,” Sir Tor said mischievously, “I approve of whatever that thought was.”

“Shut up.” Arthur buried his face in his hands and laughed until his shoulders quaked. Sir Tor chuckled quietly, the sound warm and soft and encouraging, and Arthur was quick to say, “I’m not even sure whether what I was thinking about is even possible.”

“Tell me and we’ll find out.”

“I shouldn’t.” Arthur shook his head and looked away, his frame tensing, and the languor from earlier having disappeared during their conversation. He drew the bedclothes closer to his chin in an attempt to ward off the immoral and salacious thoughts still running through his perverse mind. He ignored the vigorous thump of his heart as it made itself known within his chest. Goose bumps rose upon his vulnerable skin as Sir Tor scrutinised him through the glass connecting them in silence. “It wouldn’t be right to talk about such things until Merlin is safe and well – or at least well enough to have an open mind when discussing it. Undoubtedly, he’ll need time to recover from his ordeal before discussing the chance of rekindling a relationship with _him_. A relationship between _us_ would be a separate matter entirely, and I’m not sure when he’d be ready, Tor.”

“I know that.” Sir Tor smiled faintly, though he continued to scrutinise Arthur for several long moments. He pressed his large hand against the glass separating them and Arthur followed suit automatically, a small smile curling his mouth despite the uncertainties laid out ahead of him. Sir Tor continued speaking softly, his tone warm and comforting, but understanding as well. “Honestly, I’m not expecting to have the chance of a relationship between us discussed with Merlin at all. Your relationship with him was cut so short that I wouldn’t want to intrude now. You deserve to have an ocean of time together without me coming along and poking a nose in.”

“But I want to discuss the chance with him someday,” Arthur answered quietly, but firmly, gazing at his dearest friend in all seriousness. His heart surged with affection when the faint smile grew into something hopeful. “Merlin had no problem with watching me be kissed when I was recovering from that accursed whipping, Tor. He even wanted the three of us to dine together in private and that speaks of something intimate to me. It stands to reason that he might allow us to be together in this way, once he recovers from his ordeal enough to discuss it. I hope he will.”

“You do?”

“Of course I do.” The words escaped Arthur in a heated rush. His heart tried to a punch a hole through his throat – where it had found a new home since he’d started talking about the chance to have a relationship with Sir Tor one day, once Merlin gave them both his blessing. He remembered that first kiss he’d shared with Sir Tor so long ago. He remembered the eagerness and the hope with which he’d gone looking for the elder man when he’d recovered from the poisoning, remembered the moment when his hopes were dashed against the stone beneath their feet. He remembered his flight from the dungeons before Sir Tor had a chance to prevent him from running, before he had a chance to explain his rejection. He remembered concealing himself within the antechamber he’d been granted and cursing his stupidity, his foolish hope that someone as good as Sir Tor could ever care about him enough to overlook the suspicion and disdain of that cruel bastard reigning over Camelot and Mercia. His vision blurred from the strength of the recollection and Arthur was quick to continue before he lost the drive to speak his mind altogether. “I was devastated when we spoke together in the dungeon that day, and you said kissing me was a mistake. You’ve no idea how devastated I was over it. I was hoping to have even the faintest chance of a relationship when I went down to those dungeons. I was hoping that someone loved me enough to be with me despite the suspicion the King would direct at them for daring to care about me.”

“Arthur –”

“Even if such a relationship between us had been temporary, a brief amorous fling, it would have been wonderful to just have the chance to experience something so soft and beautiful with you. You were warm and kind and brave and a better man than I felt I’d deserved. Even more surprisingly, you seemed to care about me and I cared about you immensely, Tor. I still care that much. Perhaps I care even more now that I’ve grown older and somewhat wiser and had the chance to mature in a manner that hadn’t been granted to me when I lived in Camelot. But that cruel bastard took that glimmer of a relationship from me before it could even come to fruition. Like he took the other man I loved from me. Like he took the chance to have children from me. That _bastard_ took so much from me and _I want it back_. I want _all_ of the chances he took from me back.”

“ _Arthur_ –”

“I thought about that first kiss we shared often during the long months that followed. I still think about that kiss sometimes. Not to mention the moments we shared in that tent last summer. I think about what it might have been like had Merlin been there to give us his blessing. Perhaps he’d have even appreciated the chance to watch us make love together for the first time.” His face prickled with heat at the thought even as a tendril of golden magic escaped the crystal resting against his chest and slithered around him to press a soft kiss against the back of his neck. His lashes fluttered in appreciation and a single tear slipped free of his lashes before he could blink his vision clear. It slid over his nose and across the opposite cheek before disappearing into the mound of pillows beneath his head. A soft noise escaped him without warning, which captured the attention of his dearest friend at once. His breath stuttered within his chest somewhat before he managed to continue as though the kiss hadn’t happened. Arthur avoided looking at Sir Tor for one long moment as he continued softly, hesitantly, but so hopefully, “Perhaps he might have even joined us.”

“I’d have liked that.”

“I’d have liked it too.” The words escaped him on a soft sigh as Emrys teased another kiss against his bare skin – this one closer to his ear and just teasing that spot that buckled his knees so often. Fortunately, he was on the floor already, and there was nowhere to go. A phantom hand found his abdomen beneath the blankets and began caressing, the touch warm and encouraging, possessive and familiar. Not to mention comforting. His phantom lover knew how to touch him to provide the maximum amount of comfort and distraction. Arthur couldn’t help arching his neck for more phantom kisses. A choked moan escaped him as his phantom lover complied with the unspoken plea and began trailing those soft kisses along the arch of his neck. His breath hitching, Arthur said quickly, “I think his magic would appreciate such a favourable outcome as well.”

“Is his magic doing something,” Sir Tor asked suddenly, his tone surprised and somewhat wary, though his breath hitched even as the question escaped him. His gaze remained riveted upon Arthur – who couldn’t help nodding, too distracted now to answer verbally, his blood rushing south as he realised Emrys wanted to put on something of a show for the man who’d come so close to being his lover and might do so again in the future. A startled gasp escaped him as phantom teeth found the juncture between neck and shoulder and clamped down hard. Arthur moved his hand to grip the frame of the mirror as his leg jerked wildly, almost sending the mirror connecting him to Sir Tor and his homeland toppling, and a soft whimper of pleasure escaped him as a phantom tongue came to lap at his now bruised and sensitive skin a moment later. “I think I should stop watching,” Sir Tor continued hoarsely, tearing his gaze away, his face turning pink behind the scars adorning his face. “This feels too much like having an affair behind his back.”

“I’m sorry; his magic has a mind of its own most of the time.” Another moan escaped him as rough and biting kisses trailed down over the curve of his shoulder. His breath quickened even as he tried to keep talking, to offer an explanation to the man in front of him. “But it once told me that I’ve lived more lives than I could count on one hand and that Merlin used to watch me bed others at night. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so immoral to watch the magic interact with me like this.”

“Perhaps not.” Sir Tor fastened his attention upon Arthur all over again and his gaze remained steady, though there lingered an undercurrent of uncertainty, and no small amount of longing. “But I don’t want to jump to such a conclusion when other things remain so uncertain.”

“I can understand that.”

“I’m going to disconnect now.”

“Okay,” Arthur answered breathlessly, nodding in agreement. “Keep me updated on what happens in Camelot. I want regular reports.”

“Your Majesty,” Sir Tor answered quietly, his tone confident despite the blush still heating his scarred face. He tipped his head just so. “Please keep me updated as well. If Morgana sees something, please let me know about it as soon as possible. I’ll need to be prepared.”

“I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there are people interested in other forms of writing from yours truly, I've started running a self-hosted blog. You can find it at pocketscribbles.com
> 
> To contact me privately, if it ever feels necessary, people can head there and fill in the Contact Me form.


	73. Chapter Seventy-Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, another update. 
> 
> Enjoy, and feel free to let me know what you think! I look forward to hearing peoples' thoughts.

Arthur snapped awake immediately, sweating, his frame tense with fear and the urgent voice of his sister ringing through his skull. It was the first time she’d ever contacted him in his dreams and it was disorienting, but there was no time to orient his mind. Time was of the essence now. Three weeks had passed since he and Sir Tor had nestled down with the mirror separating them and it seemed the takeover was happening at last.

His breath quickening, Arthur scrambled out of bed within moments and the magic surged into motion quickly, summoning his clothes and armour. His heart tried to explode through his chest as Emrys prepared him for battle. His sword and ancestral dagger were being secured to his belt when Morgana appeared amid a swirling vortex of ferocious wind that scattered his papers around his chambers. She seized him as soon as he’d taken a few seconds to pen a quick missive for his acting regent and then transported him away, the pair of them materializing within inches of the perimeter walls of the citadel. Their chests heaving, the pair of them flattened themselves against the stone wall as the silhouettes of several archers raced past overhead.

His frame tightened with resolve and then loosened dangerously, his expression cold and even as he led his sister to the escape tunnel he’d discussed with Sir Tor over the last three weeks. Counsellor Ares would be waiting, his powerful magic at the ready, and his magi-natural children in tow. Not to mention Cabal and Gaius. Lord Robert would be leading the melee within the castle instead – he was still one of the best swordsmen in the castle despite having retired from fighting; muscles trained over such a long span didn’t lose their memories so quickly, and what a relief that was. Sir Tor would be guiding Princess Elena to safety, his swordsmanship making him one of the most valuable warriors in the entire citadel. No one else would be entrusted with her protection now that Merlin was without magic.

That longstanding flame for his lover burning brightly, Arthur wrenched open the gate keeping him from the citadel and the man he loved with the aid of controlled magic and burst through the gateway, his sister at his heel. He ran into Counsellor Ares – who’d refrained from illuminating the dark tunnel in order to avoid detection for as long as possible – less than a moment later. Grunting, Arthur corrected his balance as the tiniest sphere of light bloomed into being, illuminating the tunnel softly, and then blinked in surprise when he noticed Dindrane – a growing girl on the cusp of womanhood standing where he remembered a boy, verging on strapping, but slighter and more prone to sickness than their twin brother.

Arthur pushed the thought aside a moment later: it wasn’t his business and it didn’t matter in the end. What mattered was rescuing Merlin and fleeing Camelot before the King could discover his presence amid the unexpected chaos. He cast his gaze around the rest of the group and noted the differences within moments: Aglovale had devoted much time to training; Counsellor Ares had wrinkles showing; Gaius looked as though he’d aged a decade.

Fortunately, Cabal wasn’t barking, though he strained against his leash in an attempt to reach his master and smother him in affection. However, Counsellor Ares refused to give him leave to do so and Arthur was grateful for that fact: he couldn’t afford to be distracted now. But he spared a brief moment to touch his soft head before taking the leash and sinking deep into his sense of nobility, bringing forth the commander he’d trained himself to become since fleeing Camelot so long ago. 

“Ares – return to the fight.” Arthur directed a stern glare at the elder mage when he glanced at his magi-natural children and hesitated to obey, but Counsellor Ares departed a moment later after nodding respectfully, having murmured the formal address. He turned to face his formidable sister then. “Morgana – take the others and get them to safety, and then come find me.”

Arthur could tell she didn’t like the idea of leaving him unguarded in dangerous territory, but she knew the others needed to be protected first and foremost. Morgana took the leash from him in silence and led Cabal away, Gaius and the others following quickly, the aging practitioner throwing one last concerned glance over his shoulder before disappearing from view. His shoulders squaring, Arthur drew his sword from its scabbard and darted through the tunnel. Blood pounded in his ears. Adrenaline spiked through his veins. His hand tightened around the hilt incrementally, counteracting the quiver in his confidence as he moved closer and closer to the castle and to the King, the man who’d made his mere existence such a hardship. The man who’d made him fear shadows and silence until he couldn’t tell which moments were the fevered imaginings of his traumatised mind and which were reality, who was friend and who was foe.

Arthur moved through the tunnel in complete darkness. He didn’t need magic to illuminate the way; Arthur knew each of the escape tunnels like the back of his hand and had known them since he’d first started working for the Crown Prince of Camelot and Mercia. He congratulated himself on his foresight. His steps whispered through the shadows looming through the tunnel and the magic was a warm presence against his chest. He slowed as he neared the end of the tunnel and crept forward quietly, his muscles tensing in preparation as he sidled up close to the tapestry, listening to the sounds on the other side of the woven threads. He slipped out into the corridor after listening to several moments of relative silence – the alarm bells were still ringing, calling all those faithful to Camelot to battle.

Undoubtedly, Merlin would be scrambling, determined to don his armour and unsheathe a lethal blade despite the weakened state of his muscles. Arthur needed to reach him first. His heart pounding, he moved through the corridors separating him from the man he loved and threw himself into hiding whenever footsteps approached his position. He couldn’t afford to be seen now – not when he was so close to having Merlin back in his arms and so close to having Sir Tor at his side once more. He couldn’t afford to waste time battling the men and women turning upon his fellow Camelotes. Not unless it meant the difference between life and death for someone he cared for – someone that carried weight in his chest and in the depths of his heart. Someone like Sir Tor.

As though answering an unspoken summoning, a frightened voice reached his ears from around the next corner. Arthur swallowed thickly, recognising the voice despite the shrill quality, despite the fear lacing each word. His grip tightened. He hastened forward immediately, his steps the merest whisper. He turned the corner to see Sir Tor backing away, his sword raised defensively, and the unarmed and defenceless Princess of Gawant at his back. Their palpable fear wasn’t hard to understand: the men and women corralling them into a corner were mages.

Sir Tor wasn’t equipped to face such opponents alone and live to tell the tale.

Arthur locked gazes with his dearest friend for the briefest instant and then threw himself forward to drive his blade through the nearest mage. His unexpected attack drew their focus at once. Snarling, Arthur lost himself in the fray, a burst of his will sending a wall of protective magic outward to envelop Princess Elena as he danced around the harsh spells flung in his direction. The world around him dimmed until nothing remained but the magic rippling past his senses and the coiled tension in his body, and the measured breaths that fell in time with his as he and Sir Tor found themselves in the middle – defending each other and whirling around each other with an ease of movement that no one else had matched.

No one but Merlin had.

Their movements were fluid and complimentary, their limbs and blades sliding into positions with a feral grace. Their snarls mirrored each other. Their breaths quickened together. Blood painted them in violent splashes. The scent of fire and copper permeated the corridor as their enemies fell before them and Sir Tor soon invoked his name. That summoned his attention immediately, pulling the world around them back into being, and the weight of what he’d done with Sir Tor at his side made itself known. Arthur hardened himself against the deaths he’d caused and whirled around to crash into the man he hadn’t been close enough to touch in several long months. His dearest friend embraced him with one arm in return and crushed him close enough to press his face against his hair and inhale deeply, taking in the scent of him after so long apart. The pair withdrew from each other after less than a moment and Sir Tor said roughly, forcefully, “Get to him before someone else does.”

Arthur nodded in lieu of making a solemn vow and stepped forward briefly, reaching up to remove the cord from around his neck. He slipped it over his dearest friend instead and pushed his will into its depths as he pressed his hand almost flat over his thundering heart. Then he gazed up at the man that might become his lover one day, murmuring, “Your presence in the castle won’t be detected as long as this remains here. Trust in Emrys.”

Sir Tor kissed his forehead hard and then hastened away, his free hand leading Princess Elena with ease. His strong hand looked enormous around her delicate wrist. The woman in question stared over her shoulder at Arthur for a long moment. Her stare was inscrutable. She didn’t stop staring until she tripped over the rustling skirts of her soft green gown. Sir Tor and the grip he maintained was the one reason she didn’t hit the floor like a sack of flour.

Arthur watched them flee for less than a moment before continuing his quest to reach Merlin before the man could throw himself into the melee and get himself killed before the enchantment could be lifted – before Arthur had a chance to hold him in his arms once more. It took a few precious minutes to reach the chamber in which Arthur had once spent countless hours working, following the commands of his master and lover.

Arthur was just reaching for the familiar door when it was wrenched open from within. His heart leapt into his throat as his gaze fell upon raven hair marred with strands of silver and a familiar mouth framed with a tantalising beard. The two of them stared at each other for a moment that stretched into eternity, one stricken with loving anguish and the other burning through several emotions in rapid succession: shock and terror first and then fervent loathing.

Merlin opened his mouth to shout a warning – perhaps even to summon one of the Knights and alert the castle of his unwanted presence – and Arthur surged forward immediately, slamming into the man who’d once shown him such happiness and forcing him through the doorway, toppling them both to the stone floor in the process. Two swords went skittering across the familiar chamber. Arthur kicked the door shut and then grunted in pain when Merlin came up swinging, throwing his full weight into the punch.

It packed a surprising amount of strength.

The unexpected strength of the blow sent him reeling, his lip splitting and flooding his mouth with the sharp and familiar taste of copper. It sent him toppling to the side and Merlin followed him at once. Arthur almost didn’t have enough time to swallow the blood tainting his mouth and raise an arm in defence when the next blow came less than a moment later. Merlin snarled viciously, not unlike an enraged and wounded animal.

It was devastating to hear.

But there was no time to weep for the suffering his lover must have experienced during his imprisonment. All he could do was his best to anticipate the next move and defend himself to the best of his ability; hurting Merlin wasn’t on his agenda in the least. He never wanted Merlin to think he’d ever hurt him – not even when Merlin was doing his best to hurt him instead. There was no doubt as to the kind of lies that the King must have whispered in his vulnerable ears. Merlin wasn’t to blame for the anger and volatility, though it hurt to have the man he loved loom over him so threateningly, so menacingly, void of even the smallest glimpse of tenderness and affection. The old aches in his arms and hands flared as Arthur deflected blow after vicious blow before managing to land a slap that snapped his head to the side and gave him a chance to shove the man he loved off him.

Arthur scrambled to reach his sword and then gasped as Merlin hurtled into him from behind and sent him falling, slapping his face off the writing desk as the combination of weight and momentum drove him down. His nose cracked from the force of the impact and he started to choke from the sudden surge of thick blood down his throat. A cold burst of terror flooded through him as rage gave Merlin strength enough to pin him down long enough to rip his ancestral dagger from its scabbard at his hip and Arthur did the first thing that came to mind: he slammed his boot down upon the nearest instep and knocked his head back as Merlin cursed in pain and anger.

Arthur snared the wrist in control of his baselard and twisted sharply, whirling around as the blade toppled to the floor between them. He slammed a fist into the jaw he cherished and struggled against the immediate wave of guilt that rose when the blow sent Merlin stumbling backward. He stalked forward to throw another punch and Merlin ducked out of the way, his lower face swelling, the pale flesh beneath his beard darkening with a hideous bruise – the evidence that Arthur had hurt the man he loved after all. His knuckles ached from the blow and those hands that once caressed him with so much love weren’t faring much better. His stomach twisted as Merlin spat a bloodied tooth from his mouth and growled viciously, “You’re supposed to be dead.”

“It wasn’t me.” Arthur shook his head in misery, remembering the moment he’d been told of the man who’d worn his face to help him escape from Camelot and the certain death that waited for him there. “Your uncle murdered the wrong man.”

“I can see that.” Pale features twisted into something ugly, something devastating. It was an expression born of abject grief and treachery; the latter perhaps being the most heart-breaking of the emotions on his face. Arthur wanted to drop to his knees at the sight of that expression and beg for forgiveness for something he hadn’t even caused. “I knew it was the wrong man as soon as we fell to the floor. I could never forget the scent of that damned skin.”

“You remember what I smell like?”

“I remember that night in vivid detail.” Merlin sneered at him. “You used me.”

“You’re wrong, Merlin.”

“Am I?”

“You remember the promise we made to each other?” The words escaped upon the faintest tremor. Hope bloomed within his chest as something flickered within that storming blue gaze and Arthur stepped forward slowly, his heart hammering, his face swollen and aching from their fight. But he didn’t care. He just wanted Merlin to break through the enchantment holding him trapped within his own mind and leaving the perfect hateful minion in his stead. He wanted Merlin to flee with him of his own volition. He reached out to touch a chest covered in chainmail without thinking, whispering, “One day; that was the promise we shared. We said we’d build a future together –”

“SHUT UP!”

Merlin struck him hard enough to send him stumbling, tripping over his own feet. He fell hard and the chamber spun around him as his head cracked against stone in a familiar fashion. He remembered receiving such a hard blow from the King repeatedly, often preceding a violent beating, one that made the prospect of death seem like such a peaceful reprieve from the harsh abuse he’d received at his hands. The familiar chamber still spinning, and his vision blurring, Arthur tried to crawl away, to escape the man that had absorbed the worst traits of his uncle. A terrified noise lodged in his throat as rough hands seized the back of his hauberk and hauled him back.

Merlin pinned him to the floor easily, familiar thighs straddling his waist and familiar hands seizing his neck in a tight grip. Arthur gazed up at the man he loved and struggled against the surge of panic that swelled in his chest when the man snarling down at him looked like the King, his gaze dark with murderous satisfaction.

Arthur scrabbled at his hands. His nails dug in sharply, no doubt drawing blood. The man looming over him so threateningly, so malevolently, didn’t even seem to notice the pain Arthur had inflicted upon him. Merlin was focused upon the task at hand and nothing else. His lungs screamed for breath as Merlin continued squeezing, his grip tightening with each second that passed. Spasms ran through his legs. His sluggish lips struggled to shape that familiar name as the pressure in his head grew exponentially, his vision spotting, and his heart beginning to skip beats.

Desperation curled through his veins.

His free hand fell to crawl and stretch out across the stone floor – desperate to find something he could use to unbalance Merlin and send him toppling, and give himself a chance to catch his breath.

But there was nothing within reach.

He tried to speak his name again as his vision started darkening, dimming at the edges. The spasms running through his legs began slowing, his limbs losing feeling, a sure sign that this was the end of the road for him. Tears spilling, he dragged his free hand back and curled his fingers around cold chainmail – just as he had whenever Merlin returned from facing Morgana while Arthur was recovering from his whipping, but wracked with turbulent fevers. If he was going to die because of the King, then he’d die holding the man he loved until the last moment.

There came a deafening crash less than an instant later and Merlin was wrenched away, hurled across the chamber with an explosion of ferocious magic. He hit the wall hard and slumped in an unconscious heap as Arthur arched up from the floor with the breath flooding into his lungs and then started coughing, his frame turning over and curling automatically, and then Morgana dropped to her knees beside him. She looked frantic and distressed. Her hands shook as she assessed him quickly, her magic rippling over him protectively, her lips shaping silent words from the old tongue as she guided her magic in healing the worst parts: the back of his head and his broken nose.

She left the bruises and split lip.

But her concern didn’t abate for an instant.

“I’m okay,” Arthur managed to rasp weakly, batting at her hands with his own shaking ones. He struggled to his feet and Morgana caught him as his knees buckled beneath him. It took several moments for his limbs to start functioning again. Morgana didn’t release him until his knees stopped wobbling, stopped threatening to give out beneath him. He gave her a weak shove. “I’ve dealt with this before. I’ll be fine. Check on Merlin. Make sure he isn’t hurt too badly: we need to get out of here before we’re discovered.”

His throat hurt as he swallowed.

Arthur was certain he’d have bruises around his neck before the end of the night. He ignored the burning ache as he retrieved his blades from the floor. He sheathed them without a word before turning and bracing himself to face the man that almost succeeded in strangling the life out of him before Morgana arrived just in the nick of time. What he saw twisted his gut in an instant: Merlin wasn’t unconscious or thrashing with fury, but sitting docile as Morgana gazed at him in dismay, though her magic kept him bound all the same.

“You did something to him!”

“I didn’t mean to!” Morgana whipped her head around to look at him. Her gaze shimmered with no small amount of guilt. Several tendrils of dark hair had come free from her braid during their infiltration of the castle. “I just wanted him to stop long enough for us to get him somewhere safe! Normally, I have better control than this. But I panicked!”

“Is the other enchantment broken?”

“No.” Morgana shook her head sharply, her expression tightening with distaste. “I can still feel it burning beneath the surface. I can feel it fighting against the magic I used. It will reclaim his mind before long, once the magic I used is purged. We don’t have time to sit around talking about it.”

“Don’t touch him!” Morgana relinquished her sudden grip on Merlin as soon as Arthur barked the command at her. She tensed with guilt all over again as her unintended victim gazed at her in alarm and shrank away; the pair of them had been on the tentative edges of a truce the last time Merlin and Morgana had seen each other personally, but that didn’t erase the feud that had existed before that. Merlin would remember that. Arthur hastened forward at once and dropped to his knees immediately, murmuring his name softly, catching his attention in an instant. The man he loved stared at him blankly, and then smiled inanely, his whole expression warming as he breathed his name in return. Arthur wanted to weep for how good it felt to have Merlin look at him like that after having seen that murderous rage and loathing. But he needed to be strong for them both now. “You need to come with me now. Can you do that?”

“Where are we going?”

“We’re going somewhere safe.”

“Okay,” Merlin breathed quietly, nodding, his expression more trusting than Arthur could bear. He reached for him with hands bound with magic and Arthur cast a commanding glance at his sister immediately, who removed the bindings reluctantly, her expression troubled. Arthur reached for the man he loved in return and wanted to weep all over again when the man came into his arms easily, too easily, without an ounce of resistance or determination to get to his feet without help. Merlin clung close to his side as soon as both of them were on their feet. His fingers curled into his chainmail as his pale features grew fearful for an alarming instant. He seemed to muddle through his thoughts for a moment before asking, his vulnerable tone devastating, “You won’t leave me again? I don’t like being alone...”

“I’m never leaving,” Arthur promised roughly, his heart hammering. His arm tightened around him at once. He pressed his bruised face against hair marred with premature silver. He dragged in an aching breath and flooded his senses with the scent of Merlin. “Not ever. You’re stuck with me now. Come on: we need to get out of here before someone finds us.”

Merlin remained close to his side as Arthur and Morgana led him away, the latter preparing her magic for use. Just in case. Morgana enveloped them in concealing magic whenever the three of them turned down a corridor flooded with enemies.

“That was scary,” Merlin whispered as soon as the three of them disappeared down the nearest escape tunnel. His soft voice echoed down through the darkness and that fact seemed to distress him even more. Sensing the ease with which Merlin grew frightened threatened to break Arthur into pieces...but he remained close to Merlin even so. Having the chance to be near Merlin after so long apart meant more to him now than it ever had before. He gripped his pale hand in his and squeezed gently, reassuringly, and Merlin seemed to relax after a few moments. His expression grew thoughtful in the dark. “Your hands feel different than I remember.”

“I know.” Arthur spoke gently, his tone warm. He and Morgana continued to lead Merlin through the escape tunnel. “I’ve been training. You’ll hear all about it once we get somewhere safe.”

“I love stories!”

“I remember.” Arthur couldn’t help leaning in and brushing a soft kiss against his cheek. But he froze immediately, knowing he’d done something unconscionable. Merlin wasn’t in a position to resist his advances – he wasn’t even in his right mind. Arthur looked away, swallowing thickly, though his stomach performed a somersault when Merlin began humming beside him. He hastened to say, “You used to read to me and Cabal.”

“We cuddled as well!” Merlin smiled inanely, and then grimaced in pain as his bruised face protested the action. But he soon forgot about it as he shuffled even closer to Arthur, almost right on top of him now. Their hands started swinging between them and Arthur wanted to cry, reminded of small children and their sweet innocence. He missed his Merlin and wanted him back as soon as possible. For now, he had to contend with this softer man that didn’t seem that mature in comparison. “I remember the cuddling,” Merlin murmured conspiratorially, wearing an impish smile as he glanced at him. Then he giggled before whispering, “and the kissing. I liked the kissing best!”

“You did?”

“And the touching,” Merlin continued happily, a warmth growing in his cheeks despite bruises still marring his skin. “I liked touching your belly, especially, because it was so soft. It was so warm and squishy, and loveable!”

Arthur blushed immediately, glowering at Morgana when she snorted in amusement nearby, but he made no attempt to silence Merlin. Instead he listened to him babble inanely, smiling as the man recounted all the things he’d loved about Arthur. The three of them had almost reached the end of the tunnel when Arthur couldn’t help himself: he turned and stopped Merlin long enough to press a tender kiss against his forehead and murmur, “I missed this. I missed us.”

“You missed us?” Merlin stared at him wonderingly, his familiar blue gaze wide and deep before starting to shimmer with tears. He looked down at their joined hands and then up at Arthur. “I missed us too! Uncle said I shouldn’t because I was hurt. But I couldn’t help it.”

“What else did he say,” Arthur asked quietly, indicating that Morgana should go ahead and ensure their path was clear. He reached out and carded a gentle hand through raven hair. It broke him to see Merlin leaning into his touch as though he’d been starved of affection. “He can’t hurt us now. I’ll protect us this time.”

“I don’t want to talk about him.” Merlin shook his head and surged forward to throw his arms around him in a crushing hug. Arthur swallowed the grunt of discomfort that rose in his throat. His own arms wound around him automatically, one hand fisting his hauberk and the other cupping the back of his head. “I just want to go somewhere safe!”

“Okay,” Arthur assured quietly, nuzzling against his hair and ignoring the aches in his own face. “We don’t have to talk about him now.”

“Okay,” Merlin answered when Arthur withdrew at last. He found his hand again and squeezed tightly, another inane smile blooming across his mouth. “Let’s go!”


	74. Chapter Seventy-Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the patience over the last almost-2 months. Lots of stuff has been happening. Much emotional upheaval. But I'm hoping to get to a better place soon. Recently, I've been diagnosed with GAD and should soon be starting therapy, so, hopefully, this will help.
> 
> Warning: this chapter contains violence/comments that some might find distressing.
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think.

Arthur maintained a firm grip upon Merlin as he and Morgana led him away, the three of them waiting for a break in the armed silhouettes stretching across the grass before breaking into a run and sprinting for the woods. Merlin was out of breath when the three of them disappeared into the shadows and he doubled over almost immediately, heedless of the impatient frown Morgana directed at him. Arthur waved her away, lingering close to the man he loved all the while. It wasn’t his fault that he wasn’t as fit as he used to be – the blame for that belonged to the King, whose hatred and paranoia kept Merlin locked in his chambers for so long. Once his breath grew steady, Merlin snared his hand all over again and smiled inanely, remaining silent as Arthur led him deeper into the woods.

A meeting point had been decided two weeks earlier.

Arthur just hoped the others had reached the meeting point safely, though he wasn’t certain what he’d do when presented with Princess Elena once more. Not when he had Merlin in tow now. Undoubtedly, she wouldn’t appreciate seeing her betrothed clinging to him like an affectionate limpet. Nor would she appreciate seeing Arthur running his own possessive hands over him whenever possible. Honestly, Arthur had no idea what to tell her about their situation or how to do so. Part of him hoped Sir Tor had explained the situation to her already, so he and Merlin wouldn’t have to. But he doubted it. Unfortunately, the kindest course of action would be for Merlin to speak to her once he was freed from enchantment and had the courage required to open up about whatever torments the King must have put him through. Part of him feared he wouldn’t even try; Merlin might decide he was better off continuing his courtship with Princess Elena than attempting to salvage the tattered scraps of their relationship.

Despite Merlin being so soft and affectionate presently, Arthur wasn’t certain their relationship could be salvaged after what happened between them earlier. He wasn’t certain he could ever forget the weight of those familiar hands around his neck or the murderous intent burning in his gaze. It had taken Arthur long enough to heal from his torturous ordeal with the King, and that was a man who’d hated him from the moment Balinor had been murdered in the Forest of Ascetir. He wasn’t certain how long it would take him to recover from seeing the man he loved doing his best to murder him in the same room where Merlin had seduced him with warmth and kindness. Their altercation earlier had tainted the memories of that familiar room. How could he ever look at that room and see the soft moments that took place there when the attempted murder was so fresh in his mind now.

Just the thought of those hands wrapped around his neck made his heart pound within his chest and threatened to make his lungs seize with panic. Undoubtedly, the weight of those hands would plague him now. Arthur was no stranger to traumatic dreams. Just the thought of waking from such a nightmare made cold sweat break out upon his skin.

It sent a chill through him.

It would be even worse for the man he loved. Merlin had loved him in return once. He seemed to still love him beneath the malevolent enchantment that had twisted his mind and hardened his heart against him. Too easily, Arthur could imagine the once acclaimed mage distraught with shame and a deep regret for what happened between them earlier. It would haunt Merlin. More than likely, it would take him a long time to recover from being forced to harm the man he’d once wanted to marry, and there was no guarantee that he would recover from the ordeal at all.   

Almost unconsciously, Arthur drew Merlin closer to his side and basked in his warm presence while he had the chance. He didn’t know how long Merlin would continue to crave his attention or presence. He made sure to take a moment to embrace the man he loved one last time and murmur his affections against his forehead as the meeting point loomed nearer and nearer. He ran gentle hands along a familiar back and couldn’t help remembering their first night of sweet lovemaking, how Merlin had draped himself over him like a warm blanket and caressed him with so much tenderness. How their hearts had quickened together. How their breaths had merged as deep and lingering kisses morphed into sighs and moans of pleasure. His vision blurring, Arthur drew in a ragged breath and pressed another soft kiss against his nose as Merlin gazed at him in dismay, upset and confused.

“You’re sad. Why,” Merlin asked quietly, his fingers gripping his hauberk and refusing to let go. His gaze shimmered in the darkness. “You’re not allowed to be sad. Being sad is bad!”

“I’m not sad.”

“You _are_ sad!” Merlin glowered like a disgruntled kitten and rattled his chainmail for a moment. Arthur swallowed the urge to cover his face in tender kisses until he forgot about the conversation. “You’re not supposed to tell lies to people that matter. Lies are bad.”

“Okay,” Arthur admitted reluctantly, his gaze dropping to admire the fingers gripping his hauberk. He’d missed those fingers. He’d often dreamed about suckling them. Part of him wondered whether he’d ever get the chance to do so in the future. Arthur reached out carefully, affectionately, and tucked a thick lock of curling hair behind one large ear tenderly, fingertips grazing warm skin as Merlin gazed at him. If he had even a scrap of skill with poetry, he’d write epics about the man standing in front of him now. He let his hand fall to rest against his slender chest and remembered how Merlin had seduced him with the kindness he’d shown him when Arthur was worth nothing, nothing but a violent beating at the hand of a bastard that fancied himself a ruler. He remembered the promises he’d made and then thought about Princess Elena and the promises Merlin must have made her during their courtship. Surely, she’d expect him to keep them. His heart clenched. “I’m a bit sad.”

“Is it because of me?” Merlin gazed at him nervously, a hint of fear blooming across his features. Arthur wanted to gather him into his arms at once and run away, wanted to protect him from all the horrible things that put fear on that face he’d come to cherish. The face he’d missed so much when he’d fled from Camelot and certain death at the hands of the King of Camelot and Mercia. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Don’t ever think that.” Arthur directed a soft gaze at the man he loved. His hand rose to cradle his cheek at once and Merlin leaned into the touch immediately, the tension in his shoulders easing, his expression relaxing, as though just the press of his skin was enough to comfort him and drive the fear out. “This isn’t a case of right or wrong, Merlin. Sometimes certain situations occur and we have to learn to deal with them even when we don’t want to. I’m still learning, so I’m struggling with things a bit more than others might.”

“Why,” Merlin asked curiously, his brow furrowing, his head tilting. He looked so lost and confused - like a child poking his nose into adult business. Arthur swallowed thickly, his heart in his throat. Seeing him trapped in this state was difficult. “You don’t need to struggle: I’m here. I’ll help!”

“What about Elena?”

“Oh.” The confusion fell into another expression entirely, something bordering protectiveness and irritation. Merlin released his hauberk and stepped away, his slender frame growing rigid. He glanced around and then down at his boots. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “You don’t like her.”

“I never said that.”

“You don’t have to. I can tell.”

“You’re wrong,” Arthur said gently, stepping forward and reaching for him in an attempt to calm him down and reassure him that there was no need for distress. Merlin retreated at once and Arthur let his hand fall away, stung, and wishing he could erase the last few minutes of conversation and go back to the soft exchanges that had passed between them earlier. He longed to hold Merlin in his arms again. He longed to press his face against soft skin and never resurface. He longed to murmur promises until Merlin relaxed in his arms. “I don’t have a problem with Elena. I’ve met her once: I don’t know her well enough to have a problem with her as a person. I’m just worried about what it means for us.”

“Why,” Merlin demanded sharply, his stance shifting as his anger intensified. His anger made him look taller and more imposing, as though there were several inches of a difference between them. Something sparked in his gaze as he stepped closer. Arthur retreated automatically, something niggling at the back of his mind as Merlin continued to approach until Arthur found himself pinned against a large tree. He glanced around for a hint of Morgana as unease knotted his stomach. His heart jumped into his throat when Merlin seized his jaw roughly, forcing him to look at him. It sent a sharp wave of pain through him as his bruised face throbbed at the touch. Arthur couldn’t look away, ensnared as anger bloomed into malice slowly, the original enchantment burning through the magic Morgana had used upon Merlin. Fear wrapped around his spine. Hatred filtered through slender limbs. Merlin leaned in until his breath ghosted across his mouth warmly, and hauntingly, sending a perverse chill through him. Arthur couldn’t stop the strangled whimper from escaping him as the hand gripping his jaw moved downwards to cradle his neck. Merlin pressed his thumb against bruising flesh in a threatening fashion. “You think I’d fall for the same ruse a second time? I’m not a fool.”

“It wasn’t a ruse.” Arthur stared at Merlin beseechingly, clinging to memories of tender moments shared between them with his entire being, desperate to help the man he loved break through the enchantment subverting his mind and reducing him to nothing more than a puppet on a string wrapped around the hands of that cruel King. His words were less than a whisper. He didn’t dare raise his voice – not when Merlin gripped his neck so threateningly, not when it wouldn’t take much for a second hand to join the first. But he had to keep speaking, to keep doing his best to reach the man buried within. “The man I love is still in there somewhere and he knows I’m telling the truth!”

Merlin pressed closer menacingly, his gaze darkening with murderous fury, the long line of his frame pressing hard against him. Arthur fell silent as an unexpected erection pressed against his thigh. The firm heat of him burned like a threat and a promise. No small amount of fear pulsed through his veins. His heart tried to punch a hole through its new home in his throat. Merlin sneered maliciously, murmuring, “You’re trembling, Arthur. You don’t want it? What happened to the man who dropped to his knees and moaned around the length of me like a damned slattern?”

Arthur swallowed thickly, though he offered no response. But he could feel tears building, threatening to fall as the enchantment possessing Merlin tried to besmirch the tender moments the pair had shared in Ealdor. He cursed the King, and then cursed whoever had placed such a wicked enchantment upon the man he loved. He couldn’t bear to hear Merlin talking like this – it wasn’t the man he knew. It sounded more like the cruel King, who’d whisper such cold and threatening words against the shell of his ear. A shudder of horror ran through him as he remembered how close that bastard came to whoring him out to the nearest nobleman with a weighted purse.

“But I know I wasn’t the first man to fall for these cruel games. I’m sure I wasn’t the last man to fall for them either.” Merlin leaned even closer and Arthur swallowed a ragged sob as his parted lips tingled at the proximity, that plush mouth so close and still so far. His jaw prickled from the almost-graze of dark facial hair. That plush and familiar mouth twisted with so much malice. The violent storm of his darkened gaze raged and threatened to drown Arthur within its depths. “You had Sir Tor panting, desperate like a hound after a bitch in heat.”

“Shut up!” Arthur shoved forward immediately, aggressively, heedless of the hand still cradling his neck in a threatening grip. A furious blaze of heat burned through his gut and licked at his chest. His own mouth curled around a vicious snarl as anger stabbed through him like the sharpened edge of a blade. “Don’t talk about him like that!”

The harsh backhanded slap that followed struck him like lightning, the sheer emotion behind the blow sending him toppling, and he hit the ground like a sack of stone. His back would have burned from scraping against the rough bark were it not for the protection that his chainmail and gambeson provided him. But it didn’t stop his face from feeling the acute pain arising from such a forceful slap. His face pulsed with it several times. Merlin trembled with rage as he stood over him and said sharply, “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

“But it wasn’t like that.” The words escaped on a tremulous whisper as Arthur gazed up at Merlin and struggled to see the man he loved behind the fury, behind the cruel veneer crafted at the hands of the King. Not to mention the practitioner weaving spells from within his cruel pocket. Councillor Ares would never do something like this to Merlin. The King must have found another source for his cruel bewitchery; perhaps one of the skilled witches in his acquaintance. He’d have to discover who was involved once the cruel enchantment was broken and ensure that person could never harm another living soul again. Swallowing thickly, Arthur rose to his feet slowly, his bruised face still throbbing intensely, and hoped Merlin wouldn’t hit him again. He couldn’t bear to see him so violent – so much like the man that abused him for so long, determined to snuff even the weakest glimmer of hope remaining. “It wasn’t a game – not when we fell in love and not when Tor fell in love with me. I never intended for this to happen between us. I didn’t want to make a fuss or cause a scene. I just wanted a peaceful life. You wouldn’t let me have that. _You’re_ the one that seduced _me_!”

“I did no such thing,” Merlin snarled immediately, throwing himself at Arthur in a fit of burning rage. Arthur managed to dodge the first punch thrown at him and then the second as he danced away, his heart thumping, his reflexes slowed after their previous altercation. He blocked a third punch and then whirled around him as Merlin went for another. His mounting rage drove the man he loved almost face-first into a tree and Arthur scrambled away, eager to put some distance between them. He didn’t want to fight. Not now. Not when he was so close to having Merlin removed to a safe location. Hopefully, one where the cruel enchantment placed upon him could be broken and the man he loved could return to him at last – expected differences aside. He intended to tire him out instead. He intended to drain him of energy, and then take advantage of that weakness as soon as possible. But then his foot caught on a root while he was in the middle of dodging his assailant once more and he hit the ground hard. Merlin was upon him in seconds. His hands seized his neck at once. Arthur froze instinctively, his muscles locking, no matter how much his mind shouted at him to move and to defend himself. A wave of familiar terror washed over him as Merlin continued to snarl at him like a vicious animal. “You’re the one who paraded around in those damned clothes! You knew how much I appreciated them! You knew how much I wanted to rip them off and wore them anyway, tantalising me like a damned tart just out of reach!”

“You wanted me! I’m not to blame for that!” Arthur swallowed thickly, lashes fluttering as the apple in his throat pressed against a familiar palm hard enough to ache. He curled his fingers around the cold hauberk in front of him and then gazed up at Merlin once more. His gaze grew beseeching, though his breath stuttered with growing distress. His heart tried to punch a hole through his chest as Merlin continued to threaten him with those familiar hands. Arthur did his best to keep speaking, to keep pushing for some understanding, to keep encouraging the man within to fight against the enchantment controlling Merlin and forcing him to act like this. His voice sounded small and vulnerable to his own ears: he could imagine how pathetic he sounded to the malicious man straddling him now. “You’re the one that chose to look. You were the one in control then. You could have looked away, looked somewhere else for a consort. There were countless others better suited and just as desperate to be loved as I was! You had an ocean of choice when I had none!”

Something indecipherable flickered across familiar features before the hateful glare hardened with determination less than an instant later. His grip had just tightened a fraction when a twig snapped in the distance. Merlin froze immediately, his head tilting, and Arthur continued to drag in tiny, rasping, restricted breaths to sate his need for air. The name of his sister whispered across his mind and Arthur couldn’t help hoping, wishing, desperate to be freed from the situation at hand before something happened that _his_ Merlin would regret even more once the enchantment broke. His gaze darted to the side and strained to catch even the barest glimpse of the person about to discover Merlin in the process of strangling him to death.

Several moments passed in relative silence – Merlin staring down at him while listening closely, and Arthur intent on breathing, on remaining conscious despite feeling weaker and more faint with each moment that passed. His lungs ached with just enough need to concern him. His heart thumped wildly, desperate for someone to burst into view and challenge Merlin. But nothing happened. No one burst through the treeline to rip Merlin away, to free him from the hands now continuing to tighten as the enchanted man smirked triumphantly, his voice turning silken as he murmured almost sweetly, “You look so beautiful like this – skin reddening and expression desperate. I hungered for this moment for so long, burning with the knowledge that I’d never get this chance. That I’d never get to demonstrate how much I _care_. You’ve no idea how good it feels to know I was wrong all along, Arthur.”

Merlin shivered in malicious pleasure and moaned softly, his grip tightening even further. His breath hitched a fraction. His narrow hips started rocking, grinding himself down against his flaccid length until Arthur started stiffening, the southward blood-flow leaving him so dizzy, and feeling twice as faint. But the molten nature of his gaze never moved away, not once. It remained fastened upon Arthur as spasms ran through his trapped legs and his fingers clawed at the back of his hands with frantic desperation as the ache in his lungs deepened sharply, morphing into a vibrant burn. Plush lips parted around a long sigh of pleasure as spots bloomed across his vision.

“How I longed to feel the life leave your body, to feel a racing heartbeat fade to nothing. You were born a _nothing_ , Your _Majesty_ ,” Merlin rasped hoarsely, though the formal title fell harshly, morphing the pleasure in his voice into a vicious sneer as his mouth twisted with murderous intent. “You’ll die a nothing, and I’m going to –”

Something fast and powerful slammed into Merlin like a battering ram and sent him toppling, the momentum wrenching his hands from his neck forcibly; a pained noise escaped him.

A familiar figure revealed himself as an explosion of golden magic surged free of his control and lunged for Arthur instantly, enveloping him in a familiar embrace.

Phantom hands found hair and bruised flesh between one heartbeat and the next and Arthur fought against the urge to break down and cry, but couldn’t prevent himself from coughing and spluttering, nor his anguished frame from curling, his lungs fighting to stabilise themselves even as his rescuer and his assailant grappled with each other like savage beasts. He lost count of the furious blows exchanged as Merlin and Sir Tor rolled across the ground together – neither of them gained the upper hand for long, and neither of them seemed willing to concede defeat.

Broken twigs and leaves clung to chainmail and hair.

Arthur choked on a pained noise when Sir Tor managed to get Merlin flat on his belly, one powerful arm pressing hard around his neck. Merlin bucked and twitched beneath his large and muscled frame as Arthur scrambled towards the two men that held his heart immediately, heedless of the phantom hands attempting to hold him back. Merlin went limp and Sir Tor released him less than a moment before Arthur reached him and scrabbled frantically, his own aches and pains forgotten as he searched his neck for a pulse. He burst into tears of relief the moment he found one and then hauled his limp frame into his arms.

“You thought I killed him.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur croaked hoarsely, his throat flaring with pain as he spoke. Merlin hadn’t been gentle with him during their two altercations and it showed now. His hand trembled as it ran through familiar curls of hair. “He just tried to strangle me to death and I thought…I thought I was watching the same thing happening to the man I love! You can’t blame me for that fear!”

“I don’t.” Sir Tor stared down at his hands for a long moment and clenched them before looking away, his frame hardening. He rose to his feet at once. He held his hands out in offer. “You’re hurt: let me bear him for now.”

Arthur hesitated and looked down at the unconscious man in his arms. His shaking fingertips trailed down over his vulnerable temple for a moment. He leaned down to press a tender a kiss against the bridge of his nose. Then he nodded wordlessly, helping Sir Tor heft him over his shoulder as he rose to his feet. The pair of them shared a glance fraught with emotion and then started moving, heading towards the meeting point together. His phantom lover retreated into the crystal Sir Tor still possessed along the way, the golden magic within pulsing vibrantly, alert and protective. Morgana and the others were waiting when the pair of them arrived with their unconscious cargo and Princess Elena exclaimed in anguish when she saw her betrothed in such a state.

She almost tripped over herself in her effort to reach him.

Arthur wanted to block her way, to prevent her from nearing the man he loved with all his heart. But he approached his sister instead and hauled her into a tight embrace without much warning, the action startling her. He muttered an immediate apology, though he refrained from releasing her for a moment longer: the violence of their quest that night had frazzled his nerves as much as hers and he needed the comfort to ground himself. She kept a hand on his arm when he released her at last and Arthur couldn’t help smiling, the expression sad and aching, but so grateful that she’d accompanied him on his quest.

“The unintentional effects of the magic I used didn’t last long then.” Morgana glowered at the deepening bruises on his neck and then frowned at the unconscious form of his beloved assailant. She looked at him again and her expression softened completely, the glower morphing into familiar compassion. “I’m so sorry, Arthur. I can’t imagine how painful this situation must be.”

“You’re worried about _him_?” The outraged tone attracted their attention at once and Arthur couldn’t help grimacing; Princess Elena looked furious and Arthur knew better than to underestimate the determination of an enraged woman. He did his best not to show his discomfort despite the anxious knot forming in his abdomen. “I can’t understand such worry; the King told me what Arthur Pendragon did to Merlin!”

“If I may, Your Highness –”

“I’ll ask for a second opinion when I want one.” Princess Elena directed a quelling stare at Sir Tor and the man inclined his head immediately, falling silent despite the reluctance on his face. He cast an apologetic glance at Arthur briefly, and then focused on lowering Merlin down to the ground instead. He settled down himself before easing his crossed legs beneath the vulnerable head of the unconscious Crown Prince of Camelot and Mercia. Princess Elena looked straight at Arthur and announced accusingly, “You might as well be an adulterer!”

“What?”

“You bedded the guards to secure their allegiance!” Princess Elena never even stuttered as she voiced the hideous words and all Arthur could do was stare as his face drained of colour. His ears started ringing. Suddenly, the accusing words Merlin had thrown at him earlier made so much more sense than he’d ever thought possible. The man he loved now believed he’d whored himself around the castle while he’d been getting closer to Merlin. No wonder he thought their relationship was just a game – a ruse to gain a stronger foothold in Camelot. Arthur looked down at the ground and tried to slow his quickened breathing, his elevated heartbeat. “One of the men working in the stables confessed that he’d seen you bedding four guards in one of the stalls. You treated Merlin like a lover and rallied forces behind his back! You’re the reason behind the rebellion in Camelot and the weakening of her defences! You’re the reason Camelot is now in jeopardy, Pendragon! You don’t have the right to sympathy, understanding, or compassion! You’re a treacherous monster!”

“I’m not going to bother arguing,” Arthur answered tiredly, raising his head at last and directing an exhausted glance at the woman now accusing him of being an adulterous and insidious fiend. “You’re never going to believe me. Not until Merlin is free and can explain what happened.”

“Free?” Her voice held a note of fear now. “What does that mean?!”

“You’ll find out.”

“I demand to know now!”

“You can’t pull rank with me.” Arthur turned away, his expression tired as he scrubbed a hand over his face. “Shut up and let me get on with freeing him.”

“Your Majesty,” Morgana said audibly, straightening when Arthur cast an expectant glance in her direction. It provided him no small amount of satisfaction when Princess Elena gasped behind him. His sister inclined her head in a show of rare respect. Arthur tried not to smile in amusement because doing so would ruin the effect. “You need me to do something?”

“You know where the dragons are living, Morgana. Roughly, at least.” His sister nodded her head even as he voiced the words. “You won’t be able to see the sanctuary, so get as near to that location as possible and start shouting for the Great Dragon. Tell him the Once and Future King requests his aid immediately; he’ll come. Kilgharrah will know what to do about Merlin.”

Morgana vanished in the midst of a swirling vortex of wind and Cabal started growling loudly, the sudden flare of unfamiliar magic agitating him. Arthur snapped a command and his hound fell silent obediently, darting closer to him when Arthur patted his thigh in welcome. He scratched the back of his head and smiled when Cabal huffed blissfully, tail wagging. Then he looked at Sir Tor, who was watching, expression soft and adoring, but tired after the events of the night.

“You know what to do.”

“Your Majesty,” Sir Tor murmured respectfully, easing himself out from beneath Merlin and rising to his feet. He approached Arthur quickly, and then kissed his bruised cheek after hesitating, waiting for a nod of permission. His hand settled upon his shoulder for a moment and squeezed just so. “We’ll see each other again soon enough.”

“I know.” Arthur met his apologetic gaze without flinching, his jaw clenching, and his chin rising with no small amount of confidence. He reached out and fisted his hauberk with both hands. He pulled Sir Tor a fraction closer and didn’t care who saw him do so: the people from Camelot and their allied realms believed him to be a slattern already; there was no reputation for him to protect now. Sir Tor swallowed noticeably, but he never looked away, his gaze riveted upon Arthur. “And then we’re going to have some words about these damned omissions that keep happening. You’d best be ready, Tor.”

“I didn’t want to –”

“Later,” Arthur interjected quickly, his voice firm and commanding, and then he kissed his dear friend. It was a kiss filled with tender longing, but brief. “Get the others to safety, as planned. Then make contact with me as soon as possible. Am I understood?”

“Your Majesty,” Sir Tor murmured almost reverently, inclining his head in immediate acquiescence. It earned a muted blush from Arthur, whose heart couldn’t take such blatant devotion without spilling over with embarrassed affection. Sir Tor removed the crystal from around his neck and held it out. “You should take this back now. I won’t need it where I’m going, but you might.”

Arthur nodded quietly, curling his hand around the crystal and remembering the moment Sir Tor first gave it to him. Remembering the tension in his chest when he found the man wounded in the Darkling Wood. Remembering the moment Sir Tor let him keep it when Arthur was convinced he’d die alone in the antechamber to spare the life of his master, the man he loved. Arthur kissed him once more and said quietly, “Get going, Tor.”

Sir Tor inclined his head and then darted away, his hand an insistent presence as he urged Princess Elena to come with him. She resisted at first and then acquiesced when Sir Tor explained that the intended destination was Gawant. But her gaze contained countless daggers when she looked over her shoulder at Arthur on the way, her mouth a thin line of intent. Sir Tor patted his thigh in one swift motion and Cabal came running, leaving Arthur alone with Merlin as the others hastened after them.

Carefully, Arthur settled down on the ground and eased his thighs beneath the head of his former lover. He slipped the cord of his crystal over his neck and let the crystal fall down beneath his chainmail and gambeson. It rested over his heart and pulsed with no small amount of affection. Arthur gazed down at the man he loved and couldn’t help seeing the King, the man behind the enchantment that drove Merlin to view him with such venom and to attack him with such sadistic pleasure.

The deepening bruises around his neck throbbed to remind him.

Arthur bowed his head and swallowed thickly, choking back the sob that rose from deep in his chest as his vision blurred and whispering, “Please…please don’t let it end like this between us. Come back to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If readers would like to support this writer through other means or contact me privately, please visit pocketscribbles.com


	75. Chapter Seventy-Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been quite productive recently, so here is a new chapter!
> 
> Disclaimer: a scene in this chapter is somewhat similar to a scene that occurs in canon. 
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think!

Arthur remained alert as he waited for Morgana and the Great Dragon. He couldn’t afford to stop watching, not when the citadel was still so close. If the infiltrators went out on a patrol to catch deserters and found them before Kilgharrah could take them away, all hope for the future would be gone. He swept the trees repeatedly, searching for even the vaguest shadow. His ears perked to attention whenever something crunched or snapped in the distance. Magic pulsed against his sternum protectively, reassuring him that he wasn’t alone in standing sentinel over Merlin and their future together.

One hand rested over the hilt of Carnwennan.

The other continued to card through soft hair.

Having Merlin so close comforted him in some small way, though it defied explanation after what had happened between them earlier. His throat constricted as the remembered weight of cherished hands gripped him and it took several moments to coax his muscles to relax again. His hand trembled as it carded through familiar locks. Arthur used his breathing exercises to remain calm as the moments trickled by, until Morgana whirled into existence in front of him. The violent winds that surged around her buffeted him ferociously, pulling at his clothes and weaponry, and forcing him to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment or so.

“Kilgharrah is coming,” Morgana announced immediately, her tone warm and reassuring, if shaken with fatigue and something he couldn’t name. Arthur couldn’t help wondering what the Great Dragon had said to her when she’d arrived at the sanctuary; he remembered too well the fear and anguish he’d experienced when meeting Kilgharrah on the parapets for the first time. Kilgharrah had a cruel tongue at times. Morgana dropped to her knees beside him and touched his shoulder in a show of comfort. “He’ll be here as soon as possible.”

Arthur nodded and said nothing, choosing to devote his attention to the man he loved now that Morgana had returned to his side. He knew she’d watch over the pair of them. He relinquished his grip on Carnwennan and trailed his fingers over the facial hair obscuring the sharp jaw he’d once admired. His skin tingled with pleasure. He couldn’t help imagining the same prickling sensation moving down the length of his back and across the span of his shoulders. Not to mention between his thighs. Just the idea was enough to make him shiver with want. But thinking about such things was pointless currently; Merlin wasn’t freed from the enchantment and the relationship he had with Elena needed to be taken into consideration as well. Arthur stopped touching his beard when Merlin began stirring, his breath hitching, leaning into his touch like he had earlier.

That was when Morgana murmured a spell and limp wrists were bound with several bands of glowing magic. She directed an apologetic glance at him when Arthur looked askance at his sister. Both of them knew such bindings were necessary; knowing that didn’t make the act of restraining Merlin easier to bear in the slightest.

Merlin snapped awake almost instantly, arms fighting the restraints instinctively, and lashed out with his fists when he realised escape was impossible. Arthur wrenched his head back to avoid the blow and gasped when Merlin scrambled away, attempting to put as much distance between them as possible. He raised a hand to stop his sister when a spell rose to her lips. Morgana looked at him sceptically, but she didn’t argue.

“I’m not interested in fighting,” Arthur said quietly, watching Merlin glare at him murderously, his back now pressed against the trunk of a thick tree. Those familiar storms flicked around the treeline for a moment before focusing upon Arthur and his sister all over again. Undoubtedly, he’d been calculating whether an escape might be possible. “And Morgana…she just wants to protect me. Siblings look out for each other. You know that as well as I do.”

Momentarily, a glimmer of intense longing ignited within that familiar gaze. Merlin flicked his attention between the two of them for a moment and then hardened all over again. His jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists. His gaze sharped dangerously, which emphasised the threat in his voice when Merlin growled quietly, “I thought she was dead. I thought all of them were.”

“You thought I was dead as well and here I am.” Arthur smiled gently, kindly, his gaze growing compassionate as Merlin twitched with the urge to throttle him. It didn’t matter that his face throbbed with pain as he smiled. Not when that longing expression had returned at the subtle suggestion. Arthur pressed his advantage without hesitation. “Your sister is safe and well. Your mother and Sir Lamorak too. Gwen and I have ensured their welfare since we fled Camelot.”

“Prove it.”

“I will. But I need to do something else first.”

“Like what?” Merlin glared at him distrustfully, his gaze once more flickering across the treeline. His fingers twitched. Arthur frowned thoughtfully; perhaps Merlin was looking for a weapon of some sort. It seemed even the mention of Ninianne and the others wasn’t enough to keep Merlin from getting angry; his voice hardened as Merlin continued speaking, snarling, “You’ve no right to keep them from me.”

“Of course not. I’ve no intention of doing so. But there are certain obstacles standing in the way, and we need to take care of them first.” Calmly, and carefully, Arthur gazed at the man he loved and added quietly, “And we’re here because we want to help.”

“Help with what?”

“You.”

“Then let me go.” Merlin pulled at his glowing restraints and growled in frustration before glaring at Arthur murderously, the familiar storms returning. Such an expression would once have summoned lightning and thunder and that thought saddened Arthur immensely, but it was a relief to know that Merlin couldn’t burn him to a crisp while the enchantment ran rife within him. “You’ll accomplish nothing from abducting me. While fending off insurgency, the King can’t respond with ransom money; not that he’d do so even if he could. He would never negotiate with a Pendragon!”

“You will?”

“I…” Merlin faltered immediately, his expression conflicted. The war waging between the intense desire to be reunited with his family, and the continued need to hate Arthur and remain true to his King, was more than plain to see. Guilt and relief flooded through Arthur in the same breath: the presence of such blatant conflict meant there was a chance to persuade him to come with them of his own free will and that chance was precious. Arthur never wanted to be in a position where he’d have to force Merlin to do something, no matter what it was. He watched the emotions fight across the familiar plains of that face he’d once trailed the ghosts of kisses across. Several moments passed before Merlin opened his mouth to offer a reply, but he was cut short when a familiar beast swept down into the forest and landed forcefully, powerful muscles tensed with purpose and his talons gouging into the earth. His golden gaze locked upon the Crown Prince of Camelot and Mercia – whose features blossomed with immediate delight upon seeing the Great Dragon. “Kilgharrah!”

“Young warlock…” Kilgharrah trailed off hesitantly, his voice underscored with no small amount of misery, his large head tilting as he peered down at Merlin. His voice softened with compassion when Merlin flinched at the use of his former moniker – one that no longer applied after the King stole his magic. “What has he done to you?”

“What does it look like?!” Merlin raised his bound wrists and gave them an irritated shake before directing another hateful glare at Arthur and his watchful sister. “Pendragon abducted me!”

“I’m relieved that he did so. But I wasn’t referring to Arthur Pendragon.” Kilgharrah nodded majestically, ignoring the outraged spluttering of his charge as he turned to look at Arthur. Fortunately, the malice he’d once seen in that golden gaze had been replaced with reluctant gratitude. “You took much longer than I anticipated. I was beginning to wonder whether the reunion and the subsequent unification would ever be achieved. But what matters now is his freedom and at last we have a chance to set things right. If Merlin is to be free of bewitchery, then we must take him to the Cauldron of Arianrhod.”

“I’m…I’m not _bewitched_.” Merlin snarled the word as though it were dirty, an expression of abject distaste washing over his face. His whole frame tensed. His hands curled into fists. Merlin turned his attention upon Arthur and glared wrathfully, his jaw clenching as words continued to fall from his tongue in a rapid torrent. “Pendragon is a traitor to the crown and all that I’ve worked for! He breathes deceit! You can’t trust a single word that falls from his mouth!”

“Currently, I trust Pendragon far more than I trust someone I’ve known since he was a child.” Kilgharrah looked down at his charge once more and sighed before lowering his head to bring himself level with him. Doing so forced Merlin to meet his gaze instead of focusing upon the man he’d been compelled to hate. Arthur watched the interaction closely, marvelling at the relationship between them. “What does that say, Merlin?”

Merlin said nothing, but something akin to confusion flickered across his face for an instant and then vanished behind the veneer crafted at the hands of the King. He avoided looking at Kilgharrah.

Sighing heavily, Kilgharrah allowed the silence to fall between them and Arthur agreed with that decision. It would be counterproductive to push Merlin too hard or too fast at the moment – Arthur had learned that lesson the hard way; the bruising on his neck throbbed to remind him. The Great Dragon turned his head to look at Arthur and said quietly, “You and Merlin have permission to ride me to the cauldron. I will provide directions and instructions for the witch: her training as a High Priestess will be pivotal in restoring Merlin to his rightful state of mind.”

Arthur rose to his feet immediately, and then turned a determined expression upon the man he loved. He reached for his ancestral blade and withdrew her from the scabbard slowly, deliberately, letting Merlin realise what was about to happen. The word to trigger the special qualities of his blade was less than a murmur upon his lips. Arthur vanished from view and watched as those familiar storms roamed the treeline frantically, doing their best to locate him despite the magic keeping him unseen. His magic having been stolen at the hands of the King, Merlin could no longer detect the approach of magical creatures and objects. Which was a good thing, since Arthur couldn’t envisage another method of getting him astride that damned dragon.

Slowly, carefully, Arthur approached the Crown Prince of Camelot and Mercia without making a single sound as he stalked across the distance separating them and waited patiently, prepared to spring into action as soon as Merlin bolted from his position. He watched his breath quicken and his skin grow damp with sweat. He watched the panic steal across his features and his slender frame start to tense. Arthur was in motion almost before Merlin sprang, seizing him around the middle and hauling him back against his chest. It parodied the moments Merlin had sidled up behind him in the past and drawn him against his chest as his arms wound around him so sweetly, so lovingly, a soft promise for the future. The man he loved stilled as soon as the blade pressed under his chin and Arthur materialised all over again. Not even a puppet under the control of that cruel bastard was fool enough to fight when there was a baselard pressed against his neck.

“You’re going to start moving,” Arthur said quietly, firmly, not wanting to threaten him to make him move and knowing there was no other option. Merlin would not go with him voluntarily, not unless he was being taken to his family, and that wasn’t possible at the moment. Not when Merlin was still a puppet. Arthur knew the revelation would devastate his mother and his sister in the same sweep. He couldn’t be certain that Ninianne knew Merlin was under the control of the King, not after she’d started training under Morgana and honing her skill. Most likely, she wouldn’t want to be tortured with images of her brother after that vision she’d been forced to endure in her sleep. “You’re not going to struggle. You will do as I say, and nothing more. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Arthur refrained from leaning into his hair and inhaling one last mouthful and urged Merlin to start walking, keeping pace with him all the while. His arm ached from holding Carnwennan aloft for so long, but he couldn’t take a chance until Merlin started climbing the leg now outstretched in offer. His voice softened. “Your life matters to me.”

Holding him so closely, Arthur felt the breath flooding through that slender chest hitch upon hearing the words whispered into his ear. Hope bloomed in his chest. Merlin gathered himself as the pair of them reached the extended leg and snarled harshly, “ _Yours_ doesn’t matter to _me_.”

“That is a blatant lie.” His heart thumped in his chest as he continued to speak quietly, pausing at the base of the leg and refusing to release Merlin until he said what needed to be said. “You might see me differently, but I’ve never known another man as well as I know the Crown Prince of Camelot and Mercia. Somewhere…deep down…love for me still dwells in that heart I cherish and I’m going to free it tonight. Or I’ll die in the attempt.”

“I hope so.”

“You’d better start climbing, Merlin.” Arthur pretended he hadn’t heard the last few words to fall from the mouth he’d once kissed with so much ardour and lowered Carnwennan before shoving Merlin forward with a firm hand. “I’m not messing around.”

Merlin snorted disdainfully, though he offered no other response. He started climbing, using his bound hands to keep himself balanced. Arthur followed along, having returned his ancestral blade to its scabbard at his hip. Merlin settled himself in the same space he’d once occupied when escorting Arthur to the sanctuary, and Arthur settled behind the man he loved immediately, pressing close and reaching past him to grip the spine in front. Kilgharrah wasn’t equipped with a saddle – unlike Hecate and the other hippogriffs – and gripping one of the spines was the one method available to ensure a safe flight for himself and the man he loved. Merlin stiffened within the span of his arms and Arthur couldn’t help smiling; even when under the control of the King, the man in front of him still reacted to his presence.

Kilgharrah lingered on the ground and turned to Morgana. He lowered his head and breathed upon her as she started grimacing, holding her breath as the scent of sulphur and rotted meat washed over her. Arthur grimaced in sympathy; he wouldn’t want to be in her position. Morgana shuddered when Kilgharrah pulled away, muttering her gratitude and disappearing in a swirl of violent wind.

Arthur tightened his grip around the spine in his hands and swallowed thickly, aware that Kilgharrah would soon leap into the air. Merlin started trembling, and Arthur shuffled closer instinctively, wanting to comfort him.

“ _Back off_.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur mumbled immediately, shuffling back an inch and ignoring the pang of longing in his chest. Too easily, he could remember his first flight with Merlin and how he’d buried his face against the man in front of him now. It was hard to ignore instinct even when his instinct wasn’t appreciated. An odd noise escaped Merlin when Arthur pulled away, but he did his best not to read too much into it. It wouldn’t do to get his hopes up too much. Arthur released a breath when Kilgharrah took a running step and propelled himself into the air majestically, wings snapping powerfully, driving him up and up and up into the clouds overhead. Another odd noise choked out of Merlin and Arthur realised the man was weeping, his muted sobs rippling through his frame.

Arthur wasn’t certain about what to do now. He knew an offer of comfort wouldn’t be appreciated presently, but he couldn’t abide the thought of Merlin suffering. No small amount of heartache flooded through his chest and out into his extremities. Swallowing thickly, Arthur did what he’d done the first time he and Merlin breached the sky; he pressed his face against his shoulder. Merlin stiffened all over again. But he said nothing. He didn’t even offer an incoherent snarl of anger. Arthur nuzzled at his shoulder gently, carefully, his breath catching in his throat when a broken noise escaped the man he loved a moment later.

His stomach twisted.

“Merlin…”

“Shut up.” The words were forced out slowly, through clenched teeth and mucus. An overwhelming amount of loathing underscored each one. “I don’t want to hear whatever lies are preparing to fall from that silver tongue. You’re a stain upon Camelot and I’m going to eradicate that stain before it can poison someone else.”

Arthur offered no reply, choosing instead to nuzzle his shoulder once more before withdrawing. He remained silent for the remainder of the flight. He watched the land pass by, vibrant forests and rivers reduced to pools of dark ink. Relief flooded through him when Kilgharrah banked low and swept down through the sky, alighting upon the shore of a large lake. Morgana was waiting, her chainmail glinting in the sphere of blue light glowing in her hand. Arthur dismounted quickly, but Merlin hesitated and it wasn’t hard to see why; his face was a mess of tears and he couldn’t stop shaking. It would be difficult to keep his balance during the dismount when his wrists were still bound.

“Swing a leg over and drop down. I’ll be ready, Merlin.”

“I’d rather break a leg.”

“Okay,” Arthur sighed in frustration. He lowered the hands he’d raised in offer and then willed the magic resting against his sternum to envelop Merlin without uttering another word. Merlin gasped in outraged surprise as golden vines of magic wrapped around him and wrenched him from his perch instantly, sending him plummeting, and slowing his descent to the ground at the last second. He wobbled when his feet hit the ground and almost fell on his face before wrenching himself upright and glaring murderously, his whole frame tensing with rage. His bruised face still glistened with tears. “I’m sorry, but we were wasting time. We still need to get back to Camelot and stop the invasion before the night is through.”

“You’re planning to go back?” Merlin faltered in confusion. His hands clenched and released several times. He looked at the lake and then looked at Arthur. Distrust flickered across his features. “You intend to take control then.”

“I’ve no intention of taking control.” Arthur turned away, his soul aching. He headed for the lake in an attempt to distract himself from his own emotions. “You’re next in line and I’ve no wish to disrupt the line of succession. Kneeling and pledging allegiance to the next King of Camelot and Mercia after his coronation is all that I’ve ever wanted to do and I was willing to wait for that chance before. But the time for waiting has past.”

“Arthur,” Morgana said quietly, her voice soft and compassionate. She beckoned him closer and cast a nervous glance at their captive guest. Her voice dropped to less than a whisper as she gripped his arm in a show of support. “I prepared the lake while I was waiting. Merlin must step into the water to return to his rightful state of mind. But we can’t force him. If either of us try, he’ll be pulled to the bottom and he’ll never be able to return.”

His stomach plummeted through the ground.

Arthur looked down at his feet as his throat started constricting, genuine dread surging within his chest. His hands clenched at his sides. A shudder of fear rippled through him. He raised his head and stared at his sister in dismay, reaching for her with both hands and croaking, “How can I ever free him then?”

“You have to convince him that the hate he feels is fabricated.”

“How?!”

“I don’t know!” Morgana looked at Merlin despairingly, her green gaze worried. She looked at Arthur once more and squeezed his arm. She tossed the sphere of light into the air and her free hand came to grip his other arm. Arthur and his sister mirrored each other now as Morgana continued speaking. “There must be something capable of persuading him to see the truth. We need to take a breath to calm ourselves and then think about this for a minute. Okay, Arthur?”

“But he won’t listen to me!”

“Merlin is still in there. He has to be.” Morgana nodded sagely, taking strength from her own words as she continued speaking, doing her best to reassure him that a chance to free Merlin still existed. Arthur clung to her words at once. “This sort of enchantment doesn’t work without genuine emotion to form the foundations. Hate can’t be generated from nothing, Arthur. Mostly, hate is built upon fear – fear of the unknown and fear of losing control. But love is another possible foundation to choose from and I believe that is the case now. You and Merlin have something amazing, something no one else has: a connection at the deepest level in existence. You’re tied to his soul.”

“But –”

“It’ll be okay, Arthur.” Morgana smiled confidently, her belief in him and in the future sweeping across her features. Her faith almost glowed and Arthur inhaled sharply, his hands tightening their grip for a moment. He looked over his shoulder at Merlin as his sister continued speaking. “You can reach him where no one else can. I have faith in that. You should too.”

“Okay,” Arthur breathed raggedly, letting his faith in the future flood through him as he relinquished his sister. He turned to face Merlin and drew in another shaking breath before striding forward with purpose. He didn’t stop moving until he was close enough to seize Merlin roughly, forcing him still when the man tried to wrench himself free. “You need to look at me.”

“You’ve no right to tell me what to do.” Merlin refused to look at him. He stared over his shoulder resolutely, obstinate and angry, though his bottom lip started to quiver. “You mean nothing to me.”

“Look at me!” Arthur slid his right hand up to grip his jaw and forced him to look as tears welled to obscure those storms he’d fallen in love with so long ago. Something flickered behind the veil of tears and Arthur continued hoarsely, “If I meant nothing, there wouldn’t be tears welling now. You’d be able to look at me and feel nothing, but that isn’t happening because the man I love is still in there. He’s looking at me right now.”

“You’re hallucinating, Pendragon!”

“I’m not.” His voice dropped to a whisper as his hand gentled. Arthur stepped closer instinctively, bringing himself within kissing distance. His other hand moved to press against his sternum. His own heart lodged in his throat and thumped uproariously, reminding him that so much rested upon this moment. He drew in a deep breath and tilted his head up a fraction. Their gazes locked as another broken noise escaped Merlin. His gaze grew imploring as he murmured softly, “Remember the night we made love for the first time.”

“I don’t want to –”

“You and I both felt something,” Arthur continued tenderly, but firmly, pressing still closer without thinking. His lips were close enough now to graze against the beard he’d admired earlier and his breath stuttered out of him for a moment. Merlin shuddered against him and tried to look away, his tears spilling, his familiar mouth twisting with so much agonising emotion. “It was something wondrous. Your beautiful magic flooded through me and awakened a pathway; our souls ignited and we were one. That sensation was no lie…no deception. You can feel it even now.”

Merlin choked on a hoarse cry, his features crumpling, and then he was shoving past him with force enough to knock him on his backside. Arthur hit the ground with a pained grunt and stared in amazement as the man he loved sprinted into the lake nearby, its surface glowing as soon as his foot crashed through it. That glowing white light grew with each frantic step Merlin took into the lake until he was chest-deep and shaking, choking on each sob that ripped free of his chest. He disappeared from view for an instant and then the white light faded away, and Merlin turned to shout his name in pure anguish.

His heart pounding, Arthur rose from the ground as quick as he could and crashed into the water a few moments later. The name of his former lover fell from his lips like a benediction as Merlin came to meet him without an ounce of hesitation. Merlin almost collapsed into his arms and Arthur hauled him even closer as the bindings fell away, leaving the man he loved free to wrap his arms around his neck in a crushing embrace.

“Arthur,” Merlin breathed raggedly, his face a mess of tears and snot and bruises. He clung to him with bruising force and Arthur didn’t care. He didn’t give a damn about gaining new bruises as long as Merlin kept whispering his name in that desperate tone of voice. He fisted raven hair with one hand and cold chainmail with the other and didn’t care that both of them were sopping wet as he basked in the cherished presence of the man he’d feared would never stop hating him. Merlin choked on his name over and over as the pair of them continued to cling to each other desperately, hearts hammering and frames shaking, skin hot and cold all over. Eventually, Merlin drew away, his hands coming to frame his face fiercely, those familiar storms boring into his gaze. “You’re not allowed to die on me again!”

“I can’t make a promise like that. You know I can’t.” Arthur trembled in his grasp and smiled wildly, his heart fluttering with no small amount of delight and affection. A warm laugh bubbled up out of his chest when he noticed the bits of silt clinging to the dark beard in front of him.  “But I’ll try, Sire.”

“I thought I’d never hear that laugh again.” Almost spontaneously, Merlin began pressing desperate kisses all over his face and Arthur sighed happily, leaning into his frantic exploration as his own hands came to rest against collarbones that he couldn’t wait to kiss when he had the chance. His lashes fluttered in pleasure as those hands he adored slid around his back and drew him still closer. “Never stop laughing, Arthur. _Never_ stop laughing.”

“I’ll have to stop laughing,” Arthur croaked a moment later. He managed to put some distance between them even as Merlin strained to be closer. He struggled for a moment against hands that turned protective and demanding, gripping the back of his hauberk without relent. Arthur was quick to protest. “I want to stay, but we can’t linger here. We have to head back!”

“No!” The word escaped Merlin upon a ferocious snarl. He shuddered less than a moment later and continued hoarsely, his voice almost pleading, “I can’t go back there. I can’t. I won’t!”

“We have to defend Camelot.” Arthur stared at him fiercely, his own features growing wild with emotion. He gave Merlin a brief shake. “We have to defend the people that remain and then we can deal with the King, if he still lives! I want to go home!”

“But I _can’t_!”

“Then I’ll go –”

“No –!”

“I’ll go with him!” Arthur whipped his head to side and looked over his shoulder at his sister as she interjected sharply, shouting the words to catch their attention. Merlin glared at her as he continued to clutch Arthur protectively, his embrace tightening even further. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t get hurt.”

“Protecting the Once and Future King is a sacred duty, and it belongs to me!” Merlin roared the words at a volume so immense that Arthur had to block his ears with both hands for a moment. His ears rang for an instant or so. “It belongs to no one else!”

“Your magic is gone.” Morgana raised her chin when Merlin and Arthur flinched upon hearing those words spoken aloud. “You’re powerless right now. Fortunately, I still have mine and I can protect him just as easily, quickly, and efficiently, Merlin. You need to trust me and others to protect him now.”

“You can get it back.” Arthur looked at Merlin quickly, his expression wild and his voice confident. He gripped his hauberk as Merlin looked at him in shock. “If necessary, we can go to the birthplace of magic first and then head to Camelot. But we don’t have much time. You need to make a decision!”

“If there is a way,” Merlin snapped immediately, his frame tensing abruptly, “then I want it back as soon as possible. Then we’ll go to Camelot.”

“Okay,” Arthur agreed as he nodded quickly, relieved when Merlin relinquished his grip at last. He seized his hand and led him to the shore. He glanced at Morgana expectantly, who sighed and reached for them both at once. Arthur looked at Kilgharrah and shouted his gratitude less than an instant before the three of them vanished at the heart a swirling vortex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If readers would like to see other forms of writing from yours truly, feel free to visit pocketscribbles.com
> 
> If people would like to message me privately, visit the website mentioned above or give me a holler on tumblr at rachaelkelleher.tumblr.com


	76. Chapter Seventy-Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have another chapter ready, though some of it is a bit...gruesome? Read at your own discretion!
> 
> How Merlin/Emrys looks for part of this chapter was partially inspired by [Half-Dragon!Merlin](https://merlin-bunny-nsfw.tumblr.com/) by Merlin-Bunny/Lefuulei.
> 
> (Please let me know if the link to their tumblr doesn't work. I'm trying to get the hang of this linking thing, because the last time I tried to link something, it didn't work. I am a total newb. Lmao)
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think of the chapter! I look forward to hearing what people think! :D

Merlin trembled like a leaf preparing to fall when the three of them materialised outside the ancient cave that held the secret to restoring his magic at long last. A strained smile curled his mouth when Arthur touched his arm soothingly, comfortingly, before sliding his hand down to tangle their fingers together and leading him to the cave entrance as Morgana waited outside. Merlin gripped his hand like a vice. Their hands remained connected as the pair of them shuffled through the narrow entrance in a line and Arthur heard his lover gasp in shock behind him as that welcoming sensation washed over Merlin for the first time.

Smiling, Arthur stepped out into the broadening cavern and turned to reach for his other hand. He drew the man he’d loved through the ages deeper into the Crystal Cave and watched the soft blue glow kiss his familiar features.

“This place feels so familiar.”

“I thought the same when I came here to make a deal with Nimueh. I’ve since learned that both of us have been here before…a long time ago.” Arthur nibbled his bottom lip for a moment and then added softly, his hands squeezing gently, “You weren’t mortal when we met for the first time. You were…something else…something more. I’m not sure what. You gave that immortal existence up when I was wounded fatally, choosing to become mortal and die with me instead. You tied our souls together to ensure that we’d find each other. We died in this cave together and then we were reborn together. Your power soaked into the fabric of the earth that day, and this place was created from the surge of that power. You’re the reason people on this earth have magic now.”

Merlin stared at him for a long moment and then looked around the cave in complete wonderment. He looked down at their hands then and raised them to his lips. He brushed several tender kisses against his bruised and cracked knuckles before relinquishing his hands and stepping away, moving deeper into the cave. Arthur watched him go and couldn’t explain the sharp pang in his chest when Merlin mounted a natural dais. Merlin looked around him and his gaze grew knowing, commanding, the span of his shoulders regaining a glimmer of the confidence Arthur remembered from when he’d served as his manservant. He raised his hand and stretched it out in front of him. His fingers clawed the air with effort as his brow furrowed with no small amount of concentration.

Arthur gasped as several eddies of magic rippled past his senses unseen.

Blue storms burned gold an instant later.

Merlin gasped aloud at the sensation of magic flowing through his veins after so long without even the faintest whisper and then cried out sharply, desperately, raising his other hand in the other direction. His slender frame convulsed as he pulled even more power towards him.

Arthur watched him in amazement and shivered as the man he loved grew even more confident with each moment that passed. He shivered with no small amount of desire as waves and waves of magic washed through the glowing cave and crashed over the Crown Prince of Camelot and Mercia repeatedly, never abating, flooding Merlin with power and the most exquisite joy, which blossomed across his features and brought tears to the surface.

As though a siren were calling, Arthur couldn’t help moving closer to the dais as the waves of magic washing past him amplified. Making such a move was nothing more than pure instinct. He wanted to be near that vibrant burst of joy, that increasing strength. He wanted to watch that golden gaze burning up close. He hadn’t seen Merlin wield magic in so long that the chance was too good to waste now. Smiling wildly, his whole frame thrumming, the Crown Prince of Camelot and Mercia gazed down at him through a veil of tears.

Merlin hadn’t looked at him like that in so long, as though Arthur were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen and wanted nothing more than to hold him close for all eternity; something that rebirth allowed. His vision blurring, Arthur beamed at him in return and felt his heart surge with unbridled love. His soul soared with more pleasure than one man could hope to experience for as long as he lived. His veins sang with it. His face flushed with an inexplicable warmth. His knees on the verge of buckling, Arthur climbed onto the dais with him and suddenly, so suddenly, the waves of magic started washing through him instead of around him. He cried out as something in his chest tore without warning and his legs gave way, the presence of possessive arms the one thing that kept him from crashing to his knees. Startled concern flickered over familiar features as Merlin crushed him against his chest without an ounce of hesitation.

Arthur clung to him and stared at his face in muted alarm as those familiar features began metamorphosing, the silver in his hair spreading out and spilling down over his shoulders as his face grew wrinkled with age. But the changes didn’t stop there as the magic saturating the air continued to drain out of the earth and pump itself into Merlin at his unspoken command. Wrinkles smoothed out all over again and sharp features grew sharper. Pupils turned to vertical slits like those of a reptile. Round ears grew tall and pointed. He looked almost Fae and so much more as skin at the base of his neck started shimmering, vulnerable skin becoming a trail of shining midnight blue scales that led beneath his gambeson and hauberk.

Suddenly, the waves of magic ceased.

Arthur raised a shaking hand and touched his face in muted shock as his stomach twisted sharply, presented with the reason that the first version of himself and the rest of his primitive people believed themselves to be in the presence of a deity, a figure that walked through dreams and nightmares with equal ease. The gold burning in his gaze never faded for an instant. Merlin wasn’t a mere immortal. He didn’t even seem natural. He was stranger and more beautiful than a simple Fae could be and he exuded a raw magnetism that set his heart racing, his blood pumping, and threatened to bring him to his knees before him. A gentle hand carded through his hair and Arthur couldn’t help shivering, a ripple of magic sinking beneath his skin as Merlin caressed his scalp with so much tenderness that his heart surged into his throat and tried to punch a hole through it.

“Is something wrong,” Merlin asked hoarsely, as though he’d spent the last hour or so shouting into the void without relent instead of drawing an ocean of magic into his slender frame. He looked at him in concerned confusion as his other hand soothed along the curve of his back. Chainmail clinked beneath his touch. It was clear he hadn’t noticed the change in his own appearance. “You’re starting to scare me.”

“You might want to change back before we return to Camelot.” Arthur voiced the words carefully, his tone soft and reassuring, verging upon gentle. His second hand rose to cradle the other cheek and frame his face. “You look so different now. The common people mightn’t react well when we make an appearance.”

Merlin frowned at him in confusion. His hand slipped free of his hair to cradle his face in return. Power fluttered across his vulnerable skin. Gentle fingertips rested against his temple. Arthur nodded carefully, granting him permission as he let the vision of Merlin as he was now flood to the forefront of his mind. Merlin gasped a moment later and wrenched his hand away, and then his features began rippling, the bearded Merlin of before returning within a few moments of concentrated effort. Vertical slits returned to normal pupils. His ears shortened and grew round.

Finally, the burning gold faded from his gaze.

But the raw magnetism remained.

Doing his best to keep his breathing steady, Arthur turned and noticed the blue glow that had bathed the cave with warm light had dimmed. Nothing remained but a tired pulse that struggled to illuminate the gloom around them. Guilt knotted his stomach at the loss of such beauty, but it couldn’t be avoided: Merlin needed to regain his power. Arthur headed for the entrance to the cave even as his frame continued to tremble from the magnitude of what he’d experienced when he’d mounted the dais and joined the man he loved. He rubbed at his sternum and the lingering pain within. He couldn’t explain it and he wasn’t going to try, not until after Camelot was saved from death and destruction at the hands of their treacherous invaders.

Arthur looked over his shoulder to see Merlin lingering, moving to press an apologetic hand against one of the crystals. Surprise rippled through him when the crystal flared briefly, the soft blue glow brightening, and Merlin stiffened. His gaze remained fastened upon its depths. Something indeterminate flickered across its surface in the distance. Merlin wrenched himself away, shaken and pale after whatever he’d seen. His slender frame hardened and he turned away, crossing the cave in a few seconds and urging him out of the cave as the blue glow faded away, dimming once more and returning to its tired state.

Morgana choked upon a gasp when the pair of them emerged from within the cave and dropped to one knee immediately, bowing her head in an unexpected mark of respect as soon as Merlin appeared before her. Arthur froze with surprise at the sight and Merlin crashed into him from behind.

It gave him the jolt he needed to snap out of his surprise.

Arthur turned to face Merlin quickly, expectantly, reaching for him with both hands as familiar blue storms turned gold in response to the unspoken command Arthur had given him. Immense power swelled around him and the pair of them vanished amid violent wind and countless flashes of lighting, the earth trembling beneath their feet for an instant before the Cauldron of Arianrhod was left far behind. Their breaths caught as one – both of them surprised at the sheer magnitude of the power he now wielded. Stone walls cracked around them as Arthur and Merlin materialised in the throne room where their relationship had been torn asunder so long ago. Half a dozen suspension ropes snapped nearby, and the chandelier overhead plummeted as Merlin shoved Arthur to the ground and covered him protectively, instinctively; a moment or so passed before the pair of them realised the chandelier hadn’t struck them.

Arthur poked his head out from underneath the trembling arms covering him and looked up to see a solid dome of golden magic pulsating around them.

He couldn’t see through it.

“I think I might have taken more magic than I intended…”

“You think?!”

“We need to go.” Merlin rolled away, sitting up and grimacing in discomfort as he looked around him. His power swelled and the dome of magic disintegrated with a stunning shimmer. His grimace deepened upon seeing the amount of damage he’d caused without meaning to. “People must have heard that.”

“I imagine so!” Arthur scrambled to his feet and stumbled over several pieces of debris as he bolted from the throne room without an ounce of hesitation. Merlin followed closely, his slender frame tense and his face growing more damp with shining sweat with each moment that passed. His power crackled around him in a menacing fashion – a torch bracket exploded nearby, responding to the continuous crackle of his magic. Arthur looked askance at him as he drew his blade and said quickly, “I think someone needs to get their magic under control.”

“I’m trying,” Merlin huffed in irritation. He directed a waspish glare at him. Arthur couldn’t help smiling, having missed his various moods during their period of enforced separation. “This isn’t easy, you know! Being in this castle again is difficult right now. Not to mention the fact that I’ve been without magic for a long time and this is more power than I’m accustomed to!”

Arthur reached out and touched his arm soothingly, comfortingly, his own broader frame radiating no small amount of understanding and compassion. Far too easily, he remembered his own panic at the thought of leaving Cornwall – a place that had become a safe haven after more than two decades of harassment and abuse at the hands of common people and noblemen alike – and returning to the source of his trauma. His shoulders squared with determination then: it was time to put an end to that. His other hand tightened around the hilt of his blade. Arthur started moving, knowing Merlin would follow in his wake despite his growing discomfort at being in the castle again.

Nothing mattered more to that man – that _being_ – than keeping him safe from harm. It wasn’t a stretch of the imagination to think Arthur might be wounded during the violent melee in the corridors and wherever else he and Merlin might encounter enemies.

More torch brackets exploded as he and Merlin progressed through the castle.

Tapestries burst into flames.

Statues cracked and crumbled.

Merlin cursed under his breath and fought harder to rein in his magic to prevent more unintentional destruction. Unfortunately, the more frustrated he grew with his unstable magic…the more it lashed out against his will.

Frowning, Arthur poked his head around the next corner and found another vacant corridor – the seventh one in a row! His own frustration mounted even as his stomach twisted with nerves. He’d expected to come across enemies far sooner than this. His frown deepening, he headed down the corridor and located the nearest window that looked out over the cobblestones below. His heart tried to punch a hole through his chest at the sight that waited for him: the people of Camelot – common and noble alike – were gathered below and their treacherous enemies were gloating, ordering them to their knees one at a time and looming over them like conquerors must.

His wrists shackled and his strong frame shaking, Lord Robert refused to kneel when commanded to do so and ignored the strained plea of his husband to do the same. The conqueror in front of him struck him between one heartbeat and the next. The force of the backhanded slap knocked his proud head to the side. He spat out a thick mouthful of blood a moment later and glared at his conqueror challengingly, his hands curling into fists in front of him. He squared his shoulders and raised his chin higher without uttering a single word to contest the harsh slap he’d been given.

Councillor Ares bellowed with fury, fighting the armed men and women that held him nearby, blood pumping down his cherubic face from a gruesome gash on his noble forehead. His wrists and ankles were bound with the same restrictive shackles that had been forced upon Merlin in the Forest of Ascetir so long ago.

His heart lurching, Arthur watched as Lord Robert once more refused the command to kneel and the woman in front of him went for his chest with her lethal dagger without mercy, without an ounce of human compassion. An inhuman roar escaped Councillor Ares as he broke through the hold on his arms with one burst of ferocious rage and threw himself forward immediately, planting himself in the path of the blade without an ounce of hesitation. He fell back against Lord Robert even as Merlin choked upon a strained and anguished cry, having come up behind Arthur without making a sound to alert him of his presence.

Merlin seized his arm in a vice grip without warning, earning a pained gasp. He and Arthur vanished amid another explosion of immense power that brought half the corridor crumbling down. The pair of them materialised at the heart of the gathering as Lord Robert buckled beneath the weight of his gasping husband and crashed to the cobblestones with an anguished moan.

Merlin roared and thrust his hand forward abruptly, his magic surging, responding to the vibrant gold burning in his gaze and the unbridled rage twisting his features. The woman who’d murdered Councillor Ares didn’t even have a chance to shout in alarm before her head twisted sharply, bones cracking sickeningly, and sinew tearing.

She crumpled to the ground in an instant.

Arthur stared at her corpse for a single second before a shout of anger alerted him to the approach of an enemy, managing to raise his blade in defence a moment before his incoming opponent cleaved his arm in two with their own. He grunted from the force of the blow as it reverberated through his arm and over his shoulder and then shoved them back viciously, his mouth twisting around a snarl of determination. His world dwindled down to nothing, nothing but the weight of sharpened steel in his hand and the breath flooding his lungs as his senses focused on even the smallest twitch of muscle to alert him of their intended movement. He and his opponent were engaged in a dance to the death and Arthur could allow nothing else to distract him until he’d defeated them and freed himself to engage another opponent.

Sharpened steel clashed repeatedly, both of them as determined as the other. Sweat broke out upon his skin as Arthur and his opponent circled each other slowly, both of them watching the other and calculating. His opponent began another violent flurry, and Arthur responded furiously, the pair of them coming close enough to steal a kiss as their blades locked. His muscles strained as he pushed against an equal force of strength. His jaw clenched with effort a moment before he drove himself harder and knocked his opponent away, sending them stumbling, and Arthur chased after them without hesitation. He twirled his blade expertly, and ducked to avoid a wild swing, thrusting his blade through their torso with a grunt of effort.

Arthur wrenched his blade free and turned to scan the battle quickly, his stomach plummeting at the sight of nameless corpses strewn across the cobblestones as Merlin stalked through the battle and ripped through one mage after another. Splatters of blood stained his hauberk and dripped from his hands. He was a storm of righteous fury, the gold burning in his gaze threatening to set his whole face alight. There was something almost sickening buried in the vengeance that curled his plush mouth. Arthur opened his own mouth to shout something, something to rein in that vengeful being, but found the words catching in his throat. His heart pounded within its new home in his throat. He couldn’t tear his gaze away, not even as Merlin thrust his hand deep into the chest of another mage and wrenched their heart right out of its cavity, leaving them to crumple at his feet like a sack of grain as he roared in triumph and held their heart aloft. His hand clenched around the heart in his grasp and blood streamed down his wrist and beneath the sleeves of his hauberk and gambeson.

Merlin lowered his hand and let the crushed pulp slip from his grasp. He turned slowly, his expression feverish as his magic continued to crackle around him. His burning gaze landed upon Arthur and a smile bloomed through the blood splattering his beard. His stomach churning, and his blood racing, Arthur turned away, his breath quickening.

There were six threats remaining, all of whom looked at Merlin in fear and then looked at Arthur before making what seemed to be the obvious choice. Arthur snorted with indignation at the idea that he seemed less threatening than his lover. His hand tightened around the hilt of his blade and Arthur whirled away, dodging two blades in the same sweep and then ducked under a third. He slammed the pommel of his blade against an unguarded temple viciously, one of his new opponents crumpling instantly, and then another took their place between one heartbeat and the next.

Arthur swallowed a shout of outraged shock when the long chain of a flail enveloped his blade before he could make another move and ripped it from his grasp. His hand stung from the force. His blade clattered to the cobblestones and skittered away, allowing his enemies to close in as he retreated quickly, keeping his back free all the while. Merlin made to intervene and Arthur shook his head immediately, his expression commanding, and then he flicked his attention towards Lord Robert and the others still bound for less than an instant. His lover swallowed noticeably, but nodded in understanding, though his mouth tightened with fear all the same. Merlin darted over to Lord Robert and Arthur focused his full attention on the enemies approaching, their weapons thirsting for blood.

His blood thundered in his veins.

Arthur drew Carnwennan from her scabbard as he twirled out of the way, missing one swing, and then ducking beneath another while his enemies cursed beneath their breaths. He threw himself into a roll to avoid the wide swing of the flail and came up behind his third opponent. Blood soaked his hand as he thrust Carnwennan between their strong shoulder blades. The breath was punched out of their lungs instantly, their mouth open and gasping silently; Arthur wrenched his ancestral blade free and let their corpse crumple to the ground with a clatter of chainmail and raised a challenging brow at his remaining opponents.

His enemies continued to close ranks around him and Arthur retreated with equal speed as his mind whirred and ran through numerous calculations in rapid succession. He watched his opponents all the while. The tendons beneath their skin flexed as their grips tightened. His own hand tightened around the hilt of Carnwennan infinitesimally, the familiar weight of his ancestral blade a comfort to him. The cobblestones beneath his feet were like the arms of an old friend: welcome and comforting, a reminder of what could have been and what would be when he and Merlin vanquished the treacherous insurgents and that cruel bastard still bound – and gagged as an extra precaution. Arthur paid sparse attention to the murderous glaring, the pallor of skin when faced with a man that the King had known to be dead for almost half a decade.

That bastard knew his time was up.

It was clear in the angle of his chin and the squaring of his shoulders.

Dust shifted as Arthur turned his foot an inch to gain a better grip as he moved across the cobblestones. His breath quickened as the remaining space behind him started to run out. Cold sweat gathered between the small of his back and the padded material of his gambeson. Carnwennan pulsed in his grasp and Arthur threw himself to the side just in time to avoid a thrust that came with no visible warning, a breath of gratitude escaping him.

Arthur rolled across the cobblestones and came up slashing, his ancestral blade cutting through fabric and flesh in one sweep. His nearest opponent screamed in pain and dropped their weaponry, hands diving to press against the arterial spray, which drenched them in blood within moments. Their corpse crumpled to the ground in seconds and Arthur couldn’t help smirking, the expression nothing more than an unspoken challenge as his remaining opponents whirled to face him again. He retreated quickly, running through new calculations in his head. His odds for survival were much higher now. Arthur twirled his baselard in his hand and then grunted in pain when someone rammed into him from the side.

Arthur hit the ground hard. Carnwennan tumbled out of his grasp and skittered across the cobblestones. Cursing, Arthur lashed out with his booted foot and was rewarded with a muffled grunt of pain. He didn’t have to look to know who’d been responsible for knocking him to the ground and disarming him in the same sweep. Nor did he have time to confirm his suspicions. Gasping, Arthur rolled across the cobblestones as the spiked head of a mace descended towards him in a ferocious arc. Stone shattered under the impact and steel sparked.

The lethal tip of a sword found the spot below his chin a moment later and Arthur stilled immediately, his heart pounding, his hands bracing against the cobblestones as though he were about to push himself up and keep fighting. The blood pounding in his ears threatened to deafen him. His jaw clenched with determination. Arthur focused on his breathing, on the knowledge that this wasn’t the end of his path. It couldn’t be the end now that he and Merlin had found each other again. Not to mention the fact that he still had some tricks up his sleeve. He gathered his will and pushed it towards the magic thrumming against his sternum.

Nothing happened.

His lungs threatened to seize with no small amount of panic as he realised something was wrong. Something had changed. He remembered the pain that had lanced through his chest earlier and realisation dawned like a knife through his stomach.

Arthur didn’t have a chance to search for the man he loved and look at him one last time: Merlin melted into view behind the man looming over him and his mouth twisted around a silent snarl. His vengeful gaze burned gold less than an instant before he seized their enemy, his hands twisting sharply, snapping bone and tearing sinew before the man had a chance to gasp in shock. His blade slipped from his grasp and Arthur panted harshly, the beads of sweat clinging to his temple burning like ice as he realised his throat hadn’t been slashed open: a violent burst of magic had wrenched the sword threatening him away, hurling it across the courtyard to embed itself between two stones in the distant wall.

It wobbled more times than Arthur dared to count.

Snarling, Merlin turned his vengeful attention upon their remaining enemies: the one wielding the mace and another armed with a sword. His hand turned to steel as the spiked head of the mace swung in his direction and Merlin growled as he seized it without flinching, several sparks bursting into the air upon contact.

Arthur watched as his opponent paled with no small amount of terror as Merlin flexed the muscles in his arm and crumpled the head of the mace slowly, inexorably, a challenging smirk curling around his plush mouth. His other opponent was rooted to the spot with fear and stared as Merlin disarmed the first before seizing his hauberk in a tight fist and slamming his head into his face. A horrified noise escaped Arthur as bone cracked and flesh crumpled from the force of the impact.

Merlin seemed unfazed from the blow, however.

Swallowing thickly, Arthur watched as Merlin seized the last opponent and hauled her close. Her blade clattered to the ground between one heartbeat and the next as Merlin snarled quietly, “You work for someone. Tell me who it is and I might decide to be merciful.”

The woman bit her lip hard enough to draw blood and shook her head.

Arthur watched as a modicum of respect flickered across familiar features before regret took over. Merlin seized her head with both hands and the burning glow of his gaze amplified as she screamed in pain while commoners and nobles alike watched in horror. Her face twisted. But she couldn’t look away, her gaze trapped within his as Merlin searched for the truth with brutal force. His hands tightened around her head as the woman started to shake with the struggle to keep him from reaching whatever she knew. His determination to find the truth intensified with each moment she resisted until a gasp escaped him and Merlin released her without ceremony, her muscular frame dropping to the cobblestones as tears of anguish streamed down her handsome face.

“You fought valiantly,” Merlin said hoarsely, looking down at her as she covered her face with shame. Her hands still quivered from the strain of fighting his invasion of her mind. Merlin raised his chin and squared his shoulders as his stance grew confident and commanding. Power emanated from his voice now. “Your shields are no match for the power I wield. You experienced a mere fraction of that power. Your King and Queen can find no fault in this imbalance – their mages will assure them of the truth after a brief examination. Go now and inform them that Camelot and Mercia are protected once more. Inform them that we intend to parlay, given the act of war that occurred tonight. Go!”

The woman scooped up her sword and scrambled to her feet. She sheathed her lethal blade before bolting, her russet braid trailing behind her. Her boots thundered across the cobblestones. She tripped over the corpses of several fallen comrades before disappearing from view.

Merlin dropped to his knees beside him immediately, heedless of the blood soaking into his trousers. He reached for him with frantic hands stained with blood. His lashes fluttering, and his heart still pounding, Arthur made no attempt to protest the rough and possessive embrace as he struggled not to think about the realisation he’d made when that sword had been aimed at his throat. He buried his face against chainmail hot with blood and didn’t care that it soaked his hair now. Nothing mattered more to him now than being close to the man crushing him close. He wound his arms around Merlin without hesitation and released a long sigh that drew the tension out of his body, one inch at a time. A ripple of magic sank beneath his skin as familiar fingers carded through his hair.

Merlin pressed a kiss against his forehead.

Several nobles gasped in shocked outrage.

Merlin turned his head in their direction slowly, his slender frame tensing, and he released Arthur as he rose to his feet in one fluid motion. His power crackled around him as his burning gaze locked upon the King, his treacherous uncle – who’d stolen his magic and had murdered what looked like the man he loved so long ago. Who’d ordered his imprisonment and sanctioned the use of malicious magic against the Heir of Camelot and Mercia. Who’d endangered the future of the realm without mercy, without a single scrap of human compassion. Merlin marched toward the bound monarch with purpose underscoring each long stride and backhanded his uncle harshly, his whole frame shaking with turbulent emotion.

“For the malicious sanction of unlawful bewitchery,” Merlin announced loudly, his powerful voice ringing so that none gathered could avoid hearing, “and the endangerment of the heir and the future of this city, you are charged with and convicted of treason against the crown!”         


	77. Chapter Seventy-Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter ready, folks. 
> 
> Hope ye enjoy!!

Arthur rose to his feet and retrieved his weapons before crossing the cobblestones and coming to stand beside the man he loved. His skin prickled with remembered fear as that bastard glared at him murderously, his mouth stuffed with fabric and threatening to choke him where he stood. Arthur raised his chin and looked away, focusing upon Merlin and the tremble in his slender frame. He reached through the magic crackling around him and touched his arm. Merlin drew in a shaking breath and seemed to gather himself before looking at him questioningly, his gaze bleak and his mouth curling around a grim smile.

“How should we do this?”

“For a King, there is one method only,” Lord Robert interjected hoarsely, speaking before Merlin had a chance to answer the question. His voice summoned their attention at once and Arthur couldn’t quench the empathetic ache in his chest as the nobleman cradled his motionless husband against his chest. His cheeks were swollen and puffy, lending weight to the grief still burning in his gaze. His hand trembled as it ran over whitening hair. His mouth thinned with no small amount of distaste. “Where other men would be executed without an ounce of mercy, his rank allows him the right to fight for a chance of survival. Someone must face him in the arena.”

His stomach plummeting, Arthur looked at the bound monarch and then looked at Merlin as a strained noise escaped him. Gently, he reached for his arm and drew Merlin away, putting some distance between them and his cruel uncle. Arthur cupped his upper arms with both hands and squeezed tightly, his chest flooding with relief when the man he loved seemed to take some comfort from the gesture. But it didn’t stop his breath from quickening, nor the sweat from building upon his pale skin. His sweat ran through the blood staining his skin and trickled down his face. Merlin fisted his hauberk and drew him closer with shaking hands. Dark lashes fluttered closed as Merlin grimaced and avoided looking at the people still watching, confessing reluctantly, “It should be me in the arena. But I can’t do it. I can’t face him now. I’m struggling to hold it together as it is.”

“Let me face him instead.” Arthur spoke the words instinctively, his heart lurching into his throat as Merlin struggled to get his feelings into the open. “I’ve been preparing for this day, Merlin.”

“Arthur…”

“I’ll face him in the arena. I can do it.” Arthur looked down at the bloodstained hands gripping his hauberk and smiled gently, tenderly, raising his gaze until he could meet those familiar storms without an ounce of hesitation. His own hands moved down to cover those shaking fists lovingly, protectively, as Arthur murmured softly, but fiercely, “I’ll do it for our people. I’ll do it for us.”

“Is there an us still?” Merlin smiled brokenly, a hint of genuine fear underscoring the words he’d given voice to. He relinquished his hauberk in order to tangle their fingers together. “Surely, you’ve found someone to replace me after all this time.”

“ _That_ is an impossibility,” Arthur breathed his response as he stepped closer to the man he loved instinctively, their brows almost touching. A warm breath ghosted across his skin and he couldn’t help smiling sadly, wishing he could lean in even closer and claim his plush mouth in a tender kiss now. But kissing him like that wasn’t possible while Princess Elena continued to be a component in the equation. “You’re irreplaceable. No other relationship I’ll ever have will compare to this one. You are the first and the last star that will ever burn in my sky, Merlin.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.” His smile grew strained as the thought of Princess Elena and her continued claim upon the man he loved lingered at the forefront of his mind. He refrained from thinking about the pain he’d experienced in his chest earlier. Arthur stroked the back of one hand tangled with his instead. His voice gentled even further. “Anyway, I’m not the one betrothed to someone else right now.”

Arthur regretted the soft words he’d spoken between one heartbeat and the next as Merlin flinched at the mention of Princess Elena and looked away, a muscle in his cheek jumping as his jaw clenched. His whole frame grew rigid. Merlin stepped away, relinquishing his hands and drawing in a ragged breath that sounded like a struggle. His brow furrowing deeply, Arthur reached out for him again and his stomach twisted when Merlin stepped further out of reach without looking at him. His heart clenched within the confines of his chest. Swallowing thickly, Arthur mustered as much strength as possible and turned to face the gathering, bracing himself to speak to the bound monarch watching him like a cat might watch a mouse as he crossed the cobblestones.

“Arthur.” Merlin spoke his name softly, almost hesitantly, but Arthur stopped and turned to look at the Crown Prince of Camelot and Mercia as though the mere utterance of his name had been a firm command. The pair of them gazed at each other for a long moment. The chin he’d cherished for so long rose a fraction and the storms in his gaze grew dark with intent for an instant. “Don’t let him win.”

Arthur said nothing, choosing instead to incline his head in a show of understanding and as a mark of respect for his current position in Camelot and Mercia. Not to mention his future position once that malicious bastard was defeated at last and driven from their lives permanently, no matter what form that blessed absence took. A small wave of warmth washed through the centre of his chest as Merlin entrusted him with the future waiting for their people and with the future of their own relationship. It eased the sting of his earlier rejection somewhat. But he should have known better than to mention Princess Elena when Merlin was in such a fragile state of mind. Though he was still functioning, mostly, Merlin had endured so much in such a short space of time and poking him now wasn’t fair.

Arthur came to a stop in front of the gathered noblemen and commoners as Merlin conjured quill and parchment. He raised his chin and squared his shoulders before announcing clearly, “The terms of the impending trial are the following: if the King should achieve victory, he will abdicate the throne in favour of his nephew and will henceforth be banished from all lands under the control of and associated with Merlin Bayard.”

Bayard almost choked on his gag in complete outrage.

“I will stand as champion for the Crown Prince of Camelot and Mercia and will be representing the throne in the arena.” Arthur paused for a moment and took a breath to embolden himself as the man who’d abused him for so long threatened retribution with the fire in his gaze. A phantom hand touched his in a show of silent support and Arthur almost tangled their fingers together before he caught himself in the act. His chest surged with warmth all the same. “If I achieve victory, the King will still abdicate the throne in favour of his nephew and the remainder of his sentence will be decided at the discretion of the new ruler. Refusal to accept these lenient terms will result in immediate execution here and now. The abandonment of fair sportsmanship in the wake of victory,” Arthur continued sharply, his gaze burning challengingly, remembering the last time he’d been in the arena with someone who’d mistreated him when he was a boy, “will result in immediate execution – as per the traditional code of honour among formal combatants.”

Arthur stepped forward and seized a fistful of hair despite the growl of indignation from the King, forcing his head still as he reached for the gag. He pulled the wet wad of cloth from his mouth with a grimace of distaste and tossed it aside before asking clearly, “Do you accept these terms?”

Bayard offered no reply, his jaw clenching with noticeable contempt. He stared at nothing, as though Arthur wasn’t even standing in front of him and waiting for his compliance. A murmur of distaste rippled through the crowd around them as the King ignored his granted authority, and Arthur had no choice but to strike him for the show of complete disrespect for his position as representative of Camelot and Mercia and as champion for the Crown Prince. A vine of dark satisfaction wrapped around his spine as the backhanded blow knocked his accursed head to the side with overwhelming force. Bayard blinked dazedly, shaking his head from side to side as a grunt of pain escaped him. His cheek burned red within moments.

“Do you accept these terms?” Arthur stood over him confidently, his expression void of the satisfaction he’d experienced upon dealing his abuser such a blow. His hand stung to remind him of the moment. “I will not ask again.”

“I accept the terms of combat.”

“Good.” Arthur nodded in acceptance and looked away, choosing to look at Merlin for a brief moment instead. Another wave of warmth surged through him when he saw the shine of respect being directed at him from the man he’d loved through the ages – the man he’d marry, if given the chance. Arthur tilted his head a fraction in silent question and Merlin inclined his own head in immediate understanding, moving to free the commoners and nobles alike – all of them but one: the man who’d helped to raise him since he was an infant in the cradle. Arthur faced the bound monarch once more and said sharply, “The trial will commence at noon on the morrow. You’ll spend the remainder of the night in the dungeon and rest until then.”

Bayard spat at him.

Arthur smiled grimly, a promise inscribed in each corner as he wiped his face.

Merlin barked a sharp command at two of the guards he’d freed and the pair of them came to seize the King, hauling him away, ignoring his growls of outrage and his demands to be released at once. Arthur watched the three of them disappear from view and then breathed a sigh of relief as soon as that bastard was gone from his sight. His shoulders slumped with weariness while his heart clenched with no small amount of fear: facing that bastard now had been hard enough already; facing him in the arena would be even more difficult.

Merlin melted into the space beside him and touched his arm lightly, his expression strained and concerned at the same time. His stomach rumbled like a ravenous beast and Arthur couldn’t help smiling, remembering how he’d bullied Merlin into eating a bowl of the worst gruel he’d ever seen and stale bread.

“Come with me.” Merlin raked his gaze over the cuts and bruises and scrapes marring his face and hands. His mouth curled around another broken smile when his gaze found the bruising on his neck. Tears welled to the surface for a moment before Merlin blinked them away, his breath quivering raggedly, offering his hand. “Let me be useful and take care of those before we sleep. Or try, at least.”

“In a moment.” His smile softening, Arthur accepted his hand in loving gratitude and squeezed for an instant before withdrawing with care and purpose. Merlin inclined his head a fraction and watched him cross the cobblestones to kneel beside Lord Robert. Arthur hesitated before touching his arm in sympathy, murmuring, “I’m so sorry, Lord Robert. He was a good man.”

“He was a conniving snake in the grass.” Lord Robert shook his head sharply, two more tears sliding down his swollen face even as a huff of strained laughter escaped him. He bowed his head to touch hair that had stopped turning white before its time. His voice rasped as he whispered quietly, “But he was mine. He was _mine_.”

“If you need anything,” Arthur continued gently, his heart aching for this man and his family, who’d lost a treasured cornerstone of the household. It would be difficult for all of them in the coming months. His stomach twisted at the thought of Sir Tor and his impending grief.

“My children…I need…”

“Of course.” Arthur nodded in immediate understanding, his hand sliding upwards to grip his shoulder for a moment. He squeezed in an attempt to comfort. “Merlin and I will send word to Gawant at once. But it might take some time to reach Sir Tor and the others.”

“I understand.” Lord Robert raised his head after a pause and looked up at him. He sniffled discreetly, blinking wetly, his lips still quivering with the strength of his grief. He managed a strained smile after a moment or so. He reached up and captured his hand with care. He squeezed tightly, as though attempting to hide the tremor still rippling through his ageing limbs. Arthur squeezed his hand in return as Lord Robert murmured softly, “I’m glad one person managed to come back from the dead at least. It was wonderful to see Tor smiling for the first time in a long time – after what happened. Your renewed presence in his life has been so good for him. I hope it’ll continue in some way, Arthur.”

“I do too.”

“I’m sure.” Lord Robert managed another strained smile and then he looked at Merlin waiting, and Arthur followed his glance at once. Concern pulsed through him when he noticed how tense Merlin was as his storming gaze remained fastened upon Arthur all the while. Arthur smiled reassuringly, gratified when some unspoken fear within his lover eased after a moment. Lord Robert looked at Arthur once more and gave his hand another light squeeze. “You should go to him. I’ll be fine: some of the guards will help me in a minute.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.” Lord Robert nodded tiredly, cradling his husband closer to his chest. His voice wavered for an instant and then grew firmer. It was clear to see where Sir Tor had learned how to be a commanding presence – on the training field and off it. “Our time on earth is short and shouldn’t be squandered. Go to him.”

Arthur squeezed his hand in return once more and then murmured his farewells before rising, his chest flooding with renewed warmth as he crossed the cobblestones and joined hands with Merlin again. His lover drew him close again and wrapped his arms around him as magic swelled instinctively, swirling, throwing bolts of lightning and shaking the earth as the pair of them vanished from view and materialised within the antechamber a moment later. Several dozen trinkets from when Merlin courted him in secret exploded upon their arrival and the pair of them flinched at the loud noise before both of them were trapped in a sneezing fit before Arthur managed to grunt irritably, “Merlin!”

“Sorry,” Merlin managed when he’d regained control of himself. He pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head sharply, a grimace on his face. His magic swelled around them and an ocean of dust was whisked away, leaving the antechamber as he’d left it so long ago. Several moments passed before Merlin managed to speak again and he did so with a quiver in his voice. Arthur looked askance at him at once and his heart clenched as Merlin sat on the edge of the old bed – still unmade after all this time and still bearing the imprint of his head in the pillow – and looked down at his hands as though his own fingers were the most fascinating things in the world. But there was an emptiness in his gaze that had Arthur longing to reach out and bring him back into the present. “I didn’t know where else to go. This was the one place that bastard never touched when I was held captive. I never came in here after…after what happened. I couldn’t. I wasn’t strong enough.”

Arthur settled down beside him and rested his head against his shoulder without thinking, without hesitating, his heart aching and his stomach twisting with turbulent emotion. He couldn’t bear knowing that Merlin had endured such torment. He reached out and captured his hand gently, squeezing, feeling a burst of relief when Merlin squeezed his hand in return and turned his head a fraction. Merlin nuzzled against his hair and released a long sigh of pleasure at having him so close after all this time. He turned his head another fraction and Arthur shivered as familiar lips brushed against his temple before he pulled away, doing his best to put some boundaries between them.

It wouldn’t be right to let Merlin grow more intimate with him until Princess Elena knew and understood what had happened and had released Merlin from his promises. It wouldn’t be fair to her otherwise. It wouldn’t be fair to either of them.

“Right.” Merlin nodded quickly, his smile growing strained as he observed the renewed distance between them. He rose from the bed and Arthur tried to ignore the pang in his chest. He hadn’t wanted to hurt him in the least. Merlin stopped in front of the door that lead into his own chambers and hesitated noticeably, sweat breaking out on his face all over again. His hands curled into fists. Arthur watched him battle with himself and his breath caught in his throat as Merlin looked over his shoulder at him for a moment before squaring his shoulders and pulling open the door. He disappeared through the doorway, and Arthur heard some muffled cursing and clattering before Merlin almost sprinted back into the antechamber and slammed the door shut. His chest heaved with no small amount of emotion. His knees almost buckled. Arthur surged up from the bed to catch him and Merlin shook his head quickly, his expression tight. His hands were clamped around the ewer filled with water and basin filled with soap and cloths as though each of them tethered him to the earth. His voice waivered as he spoke. “Sit back down.”

Arthur sat down slowly, deliberately, an understanding warmth in his expression as he followed the hesitant command and watched the unspoken gratitude ripple across familiar features an instant later. His hands clutched the blankets he’d once wrapped around himself as he thought about his master sleeping in the other room. A pang of loss settled in his chest. He and Merlin could never go back to that simplicity, to that soft longing and deep ache that had characterised their relationship in the beginning. Perhaps that was a good thing. He and Merlin could begin again with mutual understanding, compassion and equal standing in society; two monarchs of high status and influence. Not to mention a strong love that nothing could quench.

Not even the tear at the edge of his soul.

Arthur hadn’t noticed the emptiness that gaped at the edge at first. The tear was too fresh and too new and his experiences in the Crystal Cave were so immense that he hadn’t had a chance to grasp what had happened to him. Arthur hadn’t noticed the lack of Merlin in his soul because his lover was still magnetic and captivating, drawing him closer relentlessly, without even a scrap of conscious effort. Nothing had changed. But the whole world had changed in a single instant and he hadn’t noticed it happen. Not until he’d pushed his will toward the magic resting against his sternum like a promise and felt that gaping emptiness as the magic failed to respond to him – as though it couldn’t sense his force of will or his need at all.

His grip on the blankets tightened a fraction.

It didn’t matter.

Arthur didn’t need some threads woven into the fabric of his soul for him to know and understand that he would love Merlin for an eternity; he loved him because he was Merlin and nothing more than that. He chose to love him. He still chose to love him and that would never change. Not as long as his circle of death and rebirth continued through the passage of time and history, bringing him back when he was needed most and bringing the man he loved back to stand at his side forevermore. Their fate on earth was tied together now even when their souls weren’t and Arthur would cling to that belief until his last breath.

Merlin lowered himself to his knees carefully, removing the cloths from the basin and setting them aside. Golden magic flared within his gaze and the water in the ewer began steaming, sending curling vines of warmth to assault their senses. He poured steaming water into the basin and then reached for a cloth and the bar of soap. Arthur watched him soak the cloth and work up a gentle lather before squeezing, leaving most of the water stream back into the basin below.

“Hand.” Smiling softly, Arthur responded to the command with careful compliance and watched Merlin cradle his right hand tenderly, his long fingers gentle and loving. He watched the strained nerves fade from his features slowly, leaving focus and determination in their wake. His smile deepened as Merlin dabbed at his bruised and cracked knuckles carefully, but firmly, washing the blood from his skin and easing the grit he’d picked up during the fight out of his cuts. His heart fluttered in his chest as dark lashes fanned across pale skin and tempted him with familiar ease. Merlin glanced up at him as he worked and smiled faintly, his fingers resting against his fluttering pulse for a moment. Arthur nibbled his bottom lip and looked away, his face warming, but looked at him again when Merlin squeezed his wrist just so. “You can give me the other one now.”

“Sire.” His flush deepened as Arthur retracted his right hand and entrusted the other into his loving care. Tender fingertips grazed against his palm and magic trickled beneath his skin. His breath hitched in his chest. His shoulder raised automatically, pushing toward his ear as a soft moan of pleasure caught in his throat. Arthur reached out and gripped a narrow shoulder still draped in chainmail. He squeezed a fraction in warning, catching his attention at once and earning an anxious expression from the man he loved. He was quick to say, “Please…please don’t do that.”

“Sorry,” Merlin muttered and he wrenched his magic away, the strained nerves returning as he avoided looking at Arthur and returned to cleaning his cuts. His shoulders hunched. Arthur swallowed the pang of guilt that rippled through him: preventing Merlin from seducing him was the best course of action at present and it shouldn’t leave him feeling guilty, not when the man he loved was still betrothed to someone else. Princess Elena wasn’t aware that Merlin had been enchanted during their courtship and betrothal. It would be wrong to become too intimate with the man still intended to become her husband in the future. Arthur looked down at his knees and grimaced in pain as Merlin cleaned out his cuts a fraction too roughly, his hand gripping tight where he’d once been gentle and careful. He supposed it was fair turnabout for being reluctant to continue when Merlin was so needy, so desperate for comfort and affection after enduring so much torment. “I’ll do the best I can to keep it under control from now on. I don’t want it to pester someone who doesn’t want to be touched.”

“That isn’t what I meant!”

“Really? Because it sounded like it.” Merlin bowed his head as he lowered his hand into the basin and the water ran red with blood. Flecks of grit swirled around and then sank to the bottom of the basin. His magic swelled and the water vanished from the basin in an instant. He poured more steaming water. His mouth twisted with turbulent emotion. “I’m not stupid.”

“Of course not.” Arthur reached out without thinking and cupped his bruised cheek tenderly, encouraging him to raise his head until he could meet that turbulent gaze with soft compassion. His mouth curled around a soft smile as he looked down at Merlin. “Your intelligence was never in question. You’re the smartest man I’ve ever met and I don’t claim that lightly, Sire. But we need to slow down and get to know each other again before we even consider discussing the renewal of our relationship. Not to mention other delicate matters that need to be considered with…great care. I don’t want the other parties involved in this to get hurt in the slightest. Surely, you understand that?”

Merlin shrugged and said nothing, choosing instead to turn his face away, dislodging his hand in the process. Arthur swallowed thickly, his heart clenching painfully, wondering how he could mend the chasm growing between them now without dishonouring themselves in doing so. He watched as his lover continued his silence and focused on tending to him without meeting his gaze for even a single instant. His rough care reached the bruises and cuts marring his face soon enough. Arthur grimaced and retreated a fraction when his ministrations pulled on a cut at the corner of his mouth without warning, which earned an apologetic glance from Merlin and a concentrated effort to be more careful.

Just that glance shared between them was enough to ease his heart.

Arthur entrusted himself to his care completely, lashes fluttering against his cheeks as those familiar hands finished caring for his face at last and moved on to his hair. Gentle hands urged him to crawl onto the bed and settle with his head hanging over the edge of the mattress. Watching his frown of concentration turn upside down and unable to stop himself from smiling, Arthur watched the man he loved work up another lather between his hands before slipping those long fingers between the strands of his hair. Neither of them said a word as Merlin massaged his scalp with care and washed the blood away, leaving his hair wet and dripping, darkened to a soft brown as his hair dangled over the basin resting below.

Slowly, carefully, Merlin squeezed the excess water from his locks and then helped him sit up. Arthur grunted in pained pleasure as warm fingers pressed into the muscles at the back of his neck and eased the faint cramp that started building while his lover washed his hair. He glanced over his shoulder a few moments later and released a relieved sigh when Merlin offered him a strained smile instead of blatant avoidance. Arthur rose from the bed carefully, his breath hitching when Merlin didn’t retreat and his face remained a scant inch or so from the laces keeping his trousers secure.

Swallowing almost audibly, Arthur unbuckled his belt and let both of his blades fall away, relieving himself of their weight as he reached to unbuckle his vambraces a moment later. Blue storms drifted upwards slowly, watching him as anguish and longing waged war across familiar features. His heart hammered against his ribs as Merlin watched him remove his armour one piece at a time until his gambeson and tunic were all that remained. Long lashes fluttered. Arthur couldn’t stop himself from reaching out and carding the fingers of both hands through raven curls. Merlin leaned forward and rubbed his bruised face against the laces as he inhaled deeply, moaning, trembling hands coming to clutch his backside.

That was when Arthur realised what he was doing.

A pang of regret rippled through him as Arthur pulled his hands away, earning a distressed noise from the man he loved in doing so. Shaking, and his heart pounding, Arthur forced himself to sit back down and retreat from the warm mouth promising him pleasure and torment in the same breath.

“Your turn.”

“What?”

“Let me be useful now.” Arthur offered a shaken smile as he nudged at his abdomen with his knee gently, unbalancing the man and earning a strained huff of laughter as Merlin toppled onto his backside. “I haven’t looked after the man I serve in a long time and I’d like to have the chance now.”

“Please.” The word fell upon a strained plea and Merlin looked away, his face burning with shame and need. A moment passed before he managed to get his expression under control. He looked at him then and said carefully, “I’d like that.”

“Okay,” Arthur answered quietly, his smile gaining strength as he rose from the bed again. Merlin moved away, giving him space to step around him this time and rising, pushing himself to his feet. He grimaced as the muscles in his leg seized from kneeling too long and Arthur had to catch him before he went down again. A moment passed before Merlin managed to regain his balance and keep himself upright without aid. Arthur gestured toward his armour and hauberk. “Take those off first and sit down on the bed. You’re the first priority; I’ll clean the armour in a while.”

“Your Majesty,” Merlin replied immediately, bowing his head at once before following the command.

“You called me that earlier. You knew I’d been crowned even then.” Arthur looked at him in surprise and no small amount of wonderment as he reflected upon the reverence in the tone he’d just used to address him. He refrained from thinking of the tone used earlier as Merlin had done his best to strangle him to death in the Darkling Wood. “How?”

“You…walk differently,” Merlin muttered in reply, looking down at his hands for a moment. He flexed his fingers and then looked up at him. His expression flooded with longing, familiar like an old friend. His storming gaze roamed over his face with no small amount of loving tenderness. “You stand differently, too. You even look different to me now. Taller. Prouder. Sharper. More confident than I’ve ever seen. You’d been trained as well. It screams nobility; I saw it as soon as I opened the door earlier. You’re a king, a trusted leader of the people. That rank should be respected.”

“But I’m so much more than a king, Merlin. Most importantly, I’m a man – just like other men before me.” Arthur smiled down at him softly, his heart warming in the face of such familiar longing. His hand itched to reach out and cup his bearded face tenderly, but Arthur managed to refrain from doing so as he continued speaking. His voice softened with affection. “I’ve no need for titles and other marks of respect when spending time with someone I trust and care about in private. I’ve no need for them now.”

Merlin offered a broken smile and looked away, shrugging his shoulders as he sat down on the bed. Several moments passed before he said quietly, “You’re firmer than I remember.”

“Is that a bad thing,” Arthur asked hesitantly, almost timidly, remembering how enamoured with his padding the Crown Prince of Camelot and Mercia used to be before their relationship was torn asunder so violently, so aggressively, giving neither of them a chance to murmur a farewell. His hand twitched with the need to start fiddling with his ancestral ring, but he managed to refrain from doing so. Arthur watched Merlin closely, his breath catching, a tendril of fear blooming within his chest.

“No. Of course not. You’re still beautiful. So beautiful. I can’t bear to look sometimes.” Merlin stared down at his hands as he flexed his fingers. His shoulders weighed down with regret and no small amount of longing, matching the hollow expression blossoming across his features. Just the sight of such an expression had Arthur desperate to gather him into his arms and whisk him away, but he couldn’t. Merlin could never escape from the danger inherent in his own feelings…his own turbulent mind. It was a battle that needed to be faced before reconciliation of their differences could happen. But knowing that didn’t make it easier to bear when Merlin looked like this. “It just serves as a reminder that nothing will ever be the same between us. You’re different. I’m…different…and I’m afraid of what that means.”

“There is nothing wrong with being different. Nor with being afraid of the future and what it means for us. What we’ve gone through in the past will make us stronger in the future. But we have some more growing to do first.” Arthur dropped to his knees in front of Merlin and captured his hands. He cradled them close to his chest at once. Merlin looked up in surprise and offered another broken smile as he continued speaking. Arthur squeezed his hands gently, stroking them with his thumbs. “Knowing things will never be the same is frightening, but there is one thing that will never change for as long as we live: I will support the man I love on his journey, until he comes out the other side and further than that. Hold on to that knowledge and don’t ever let go.”

“Is that a promise?”

“You’d better believe it!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone wants to give me a holler privately, feel free to head over to [my tumblr](http://rachaelkelleher.tumblr.com/)


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